Getting old is weird. Most of my memories have attached themselves to specific songs, foods, or smells. So for instance, when I hear certain songs I drift off for a moment.
Last Monday at lunch a student snapped me out of a daydream. I admitted that song on Spotify thrust me into an extended memory. They asked me about the connection between songs and memories. We ended up discussing how songs have the power to drop us back into specific and detailed experiences from deep in our memories.
So when it happened with Gimme Shelter I had a story to share as we finished up our break.
In the mid 90s Weston called me up out of the blue. He said he had one, maybe two questions for me. First he asked if it was true that I worked with at risk and formerly adjudicated youth. When I said I did, he dropped the second query. He wanted to know if there was any chance I could work in Florida for seven weeks. He called on a Tuesday. I flew across the country and a few days later I helped put 18 young adults in canoes along a river just outside of Orlando. Over the next few weeks I learned what it took to be an instructor for Outward Bound and what I wanted to do with my life.
This experience for first time offenders would involve almost six weeks of programming. These youth had been given a choice: this OB course and parole or time in juvenile detention. The course featured three weeks of canoeing and camping followed by two weeks of in-home and school visits. During the last week we (the three instructors) would write a report for each individual that included a number of recommendations for various services. The state would then use these recommendations to tailor support for each youth. Outward Bound did the initial assessments and as a result the state saved time and money. Who knew Florida could be so progressive.
Our group began with 16 young men between the ages of 12 and 17 along with two young women (both 16). The gentlemen were primarily white and Latino while the ladies were both African American. The gender and racial disparities within the group spelled disaster. On Day 3 we had to stop one of the young women from bashing the skull of a 12 year old boy with her paddle. Don’t get me wrong - he totally deserved the beating. Unfortunately she broke her parole and we had to hand her off to some deputies. This left one young Black woman - which just wasn’t fair to her. She took matters into her own hands by trying to run away before we could drop her off for pick up. This left us with 16 boys fighting for power and status - our own bucket of crabs in perpetual motion.
For me this gig provided an array of professional development opportunities disguised among the chaos and confusion of male adolescence. I learned to swim in an alligator infested river in the dark; to walk the rails of a floating canoe in a tropical storm; to give feedback to students with my foot covered in red ants; and to follow runaways for 20 miles in flip flops. I also learned how to build relationships with students quicker and came away with a fuller bag of tricks. I experienced the power of learning outside the classroom and started to see the potential of bringing adventure inside the classroom. On this trip I learned what kind of teacher I wanted to be.
Throughout the trip I had music playing in my head. For some reason classic rock echoed in my ears while awake and asleep - primarily Down by the River (Neil Young), The End (The Doors), Who’ll Stop the Rain (CCR), and Gimme Shelter (Rolling Stones).
After weathering figurative and actual storms on the rivers around central Florida, our group had made a few breakthroughs. One day we paddled along a tributary not far from a small town. The dynamics had stabilized and a layer of trust had begun to set in our group. We had survived escaped NASA monkees a few days before, but now found ourselves in the heart of Florida’s Klan country. We prepped the boys with some honest conversations about racism in the South, but didn’t really expect trouble.
Running low on drinking water we approached a riverside beach that the lead instructor knew had water. Initially our plan was to pull the group ashore, stretch our legs, and fill up on water. No one expected what we found as we rounded the bend and glimpsed the park. The ‘park’ was really a dirt parking lot that ran up to the sand. It had a few spigots and a partially completed highway overpass spanning part of the river. Pickup trucks, backed up to the sand across the parking lot with their open beds overflowing with coolers and beach gear. Families had set up for the day along the riverbank. Music blared. Kids swam. Empty beer cans lined the sand around the beach chairs. And Confederate flags hung in the breeze.
This seemed to be a moment worthy of Apocalypse Now. Young children pointed at us. Parents shook their heads. The teenage boys muttered insults and spit on the ground while they stared. In my head the opening notes of Gimme Shelter began…
War, children
It's just a shot away
We decided that only the lead instructor would go ashore. Myself and the third instructor would keep the group moving down the river. We reminded the boys not to react to the behavior that greeted us.
Ooh, see the fire is sweepin'
Our streets today
Burns like a red coal carpet
Mad bull lost its way
As the lead paddled her way towards the shore, the youngest children started throwing rocks at her. Any thoughts of the parents correcting that behavior began to fade as the adults laughed and took pictures of their kids hurling rocks. When the adults started throwing their empties, we knew we were in trouble. As our lead instructor backpaddled someone started their truck and gunned the engine so a cloud of diesel smoke hung in the air along the shore. That’s why we didn’t notice their teenagers running up the overpass ahead of us.
Mmm, a flood is threatening
My very life today
Soon kids started jumping off the overpass dive bombing our convoy of canoes - cannonballs and jackknifes just off the sides of our boats. We paddled faster. The other instructor and I instructed our boys to paddle into deeper water, putting our canoes between them and the welcome wagon. The lead instructor dodged rocks, cans, and the divers. Soon we were safely down the river. Shook and thirsty but out of harm’s way.
Gimme, gimme shelter
Or I'm gonna fade away
No one spoke for what seemed like hours. A few miles later we stumbled on a spigot of fresh drinking water. We needed to process what we had just experienced, but the words weren’t ready. We told the boys we’d talk when they were ready. So, we floated downstream until we found a cove of clear water and tied our canoes to the trees along the edge of the water. With no land suitable for us to circle up and no gators to worry about, we floated in the water. The manatees curious about this intrusion lumbered by and somehow provided a level of understanding without saying a word. Eventually one of the boys spoke up, “Well that was fucked up.” We found our shelter.
Now whenever the notes of that Stones song come across my speakers, I don’t think of hate and violence. Instead my mind drifts down the river. In my mind the paddle pulls me downstream and a manatee watches me go. Understanding hangs in the air with a hint of diesel fumes. Yep, fucked up and amazing.