Kayaks, trucks, killer bees and the power of stoic hopefulness

There we were, my wife and I, in the intracoastal waterway, floating in our kayaks, at the edge of an approaching thunderstorm, absent any clue which direction we should paddle, with a young child along for the ride. The day started sunny enough, and we were both confident in our familiarity with the landmarks that showed themselves on the muddy shell-ridden islands along the way. We were so confident in fact that we told our 5-year-old, who was reluctant to take the journey, that there was nothing at all to be afraid of, unless we got lost or a storm suddenly blew in. There I was, in my little truck, hanging halfway off the gravel driveway and halfway on a steep incline that led with perilous certainty to the rocky banks of Boone Lake. Along with me were three little passengers, also known as our children. It had been a good day. We had fished and swam and swam and fished. We were all tired, but it was the good kind of tired. We were on the way back home for dinner and then to bed. The driveway had always been a little tricky to navigate, and the truck wasn't four-wheel-drive. It had gotten a little loose in the corners, as they say in Bristol. To try to move it any more, in yet another attempt to climb our way out, would not have been smart. In our home, we adhered to what could be called the "Killer Bees Doctrine." When the children were growing up, whenever a calamity threatened to spread its way across the globe and the news media reported humanity's potential demise in hushed and somber tones, I'd tell them that we would worry about that as soon as the killer bees showed up. The killer bees were of course supposed to create the same catastrophic consequences when I was a boy. And lo and behold, they must have stopped off for a margarita, because they still weren't here. And the "Killer Bees Doctrine" worked pretty well, and for many years it lowered the anxiety of our children and served as sort of a psychological shield against self-inflicted fear. Yes, it worked almost like a good luck charm, until early 2020. Storms blow up, things go sideways, and sometimes fears are made manifest. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers and even more for the grace of those we know, especially our children. The best of us live life with a sort of a stoic hopefulness. There is belief that things will go well, but there is also determination when they don't. Defeat doesn't lead to disillusionment. And failing, though always an option, is seldom an end. Those kinds of people are more interested in direction than they are with plan. I really admire those kinds of people. In the middle of the intracostal, we somehow found, or maybe stumbled upon, our bearings. And we rode the wind of the storm to safe harbor. As for our 5-year-old, he was none the wiser and wanted to go back out the next day. We opted to stay on land. As for the truck and gravel driveway, we were able to scramble out of the vehicle and make our way back to the old family cabin. I cooked with whatever ingredients were available, a dish we called "Daddy's Goulash," and called the tow truck on the landline. It was before GPS, so it took awhile for the driver to find us with MapQuest printouts in hand. But we eventually made it to those beds. And when the killer bees did finally show up in the form of COVID-19, the distance and the isolation forced an intentional effort to connect that actually brought our family closer. Things will go wrong, but that is never a reason not to try, not to live life with a quick smile. Because things will also go right. There's always a chance they will go right. Jeff McCord lives and works in the Kingsport area. You can email him at docdavismccord@gmail.com.