Warriors

Timing is everything. 

We are the sons and daughters of warriors.  Fosses have blood on our hands and souls. We only know the “recent” history.  John Fosse fought the Dutch in naval battles in the 1600's and the Indians in King Philip’s War in the Colonies, as did his sons, Samuel and Ichabod. Isaiah Foss fought the British in the Revolutionary War at Saratoga and perhaps at Bunker Hill. 

William H Foss fought in the Civil War at Bull Run and Fredericksburg. Elfin J Foss, 1^st cousin of William,  died on Little Round Top at Gettysburg. Andrew Foss, brother of Hiram, was a merchant marine, on a ship torpedoed during WWII and survived by swimming under burning pools of oil. Uncle Bob Foss served in the Army during Korea.

But Frank was too young for WWII by a scant couple years. And Glen drew a high lottery number in the draft of 1970 for the Vietnam War and did not serve. Ryan and Eric grew up during a relatively calm period of history and missed the Mid-East Conflicts, Kuwait and Iraq and Afghanistan.

On my mother’s side, our family fought in the Spanish American War and WWI. Uncle Stan was in the Coast Guard off Africa in WWII. Uncle Dick was a Marine in the 50s.

On Connie's side, Joe Murphy served in WWII in England and Germany and later in Korea. So did his three brothers and three brothers-in-law and one brother-in-law, Edward Barrows, the son of the Maine Governor, died in France.  Joey Murphy and later, his brother, Noah Murphy served in the Air National Guard.

We have violence in our DNA. We have war in our veins. Those of us who “missed” the opportunity to fight somehow feel guilty that we did not serve our country...other than pay our taxes.

 And now the focus is on our potential future warriors, Davis, age 6 and Isaac, age 4 (assuming Maya chooses not to serve...) and all the nieces and nephews. The world is so different now. War is so different. Technology has advanced exponentially at the same time humanity continues to demonstrate it's disgusting inhumanity. I know their world will not be peaceful.

 I just hope their timing is good. 

Close Calls

 

We can all recall those adrenalin pumping close calls in our lives. A narrowly avoided car accident. A slip on a rocky precipice. A close lightning strike. Sliding off an icy ski slope at a high rate of speed into the woods. The list goes on. There have been more than a few for me, but one especially comes to mind.

My best man, Gordie, was back in Maine one chilly October week and we decided to go duck hunting in the marshes on the north end of East Pond in Smithfield. Gordie lived in Fairbanks Alaska where winter had already arrived, but Maine weather was comparitively mild and the waters were still cool, but not freezing.

We loaded up my 12 foot alumicraft duck boat complete with a new 12 hp Evinrude outboard at the south end boat ramp. Guns and ammo boxes, decoys, paddles, materials to construct a blind. We were anxious to head out in the early morning mist and I wanted to try out my new motor. Perhaps that is why I neglected to attach the motor kill strap to my wrist.

We were half way up the lake and the motor was performing well. We were flying. The bailing bucket was rolling around on the bottom of the boat and I let go of the tiller to secure it. As I discovered later, the motor tiller tensioning screw had not been tightened. The motor turned sharply to the right.

I was thrown out of the boat. When I fought my way to the surface I was shocked to find the boat racing around me at full speed (no kill switch) with Gordie clinging to the gunnells, half in the water as the boat swamped and filled with water. I'll never forget the look on Gordie's face. In Alaska in October this mishap would have been a hypothermic fatality. 

The motor was still wide open but the boat's wild circles had slowed being half filled with water. On the third cycle I was able to lunge into the boat and pull the kill switch at which point the motor went under water and all our gear started floating on the surface. We were about 100 yards off shore, but it seemed like a mile.

The styrofoam floats under the seats kept the boat from sinking completely. We quickly made a plan. Gordie stayed in the water at the bow preventing the boat from flipping over. I grabbed our guns and ammo boxes floating in their cases and stuffed them under the seats, grabbed a paddle and stood in the boat with water to my waist. I paddled like hell for the shore.

Twenty minutes later we beached the boat. Gordie was blue and shaking. Hypothermia was setting in. I knew we had to act fast. There were unoccupied camps along the lake at that time of year. We would have to break into a camp, get out of our wet clothes and warm up...quickly.

I scanned the camps and fortunately identified one that looked familiar, my buddy Kenny's place. We were about to break the glass in the door when I thought maybe Kenny had a hidden key. Sure enough, it was hanging on a nail under the deck. When we opened the door we knew we were saved. The wood stove was loaded and we quickly started a roaring fire. We stripped off our wet clothes and wrapped ourselves in blankets. And in the middle of the kitchen table was an unopened handle of Scorsby's scotch.

By 9:00 am we were toasty and toasted. By noon time, we had bailed the boat, stowed the gear and were trailering back to the house. We stopped for lunch in Oakland at our frat brother, Art's, greasy spoon where I called Kenny. No answer, so on his answering machine I left a criptic message.

"Kenny, just wanted to thank you for saving our asses. I owe you a bottle of scotch. Talk soon, my friend."

Gordie has never gone duck hunting with me since...