The
Rope Swing
Dreaming
I was going on 14 in 1988 when the construction of our new home out in Brentwood was starting. We'd go there on the weekends to see the progress that had been made since our last visit. We would water trees, one at a time, siphoning from the old gas tanks that would slowly fill from our well. We would wander through the unfinished house as it slowly took shape. And we'd explore. In short order, I found the sand mines smelling of dead cow and littered with beer bottles and trash, they were great for exploring and adventuring. Eventually they were blasted and bulldozed into oblivion. There was a creek near our house from which we'd catch and eat crawdads with pieces of cheese on strings or a wire mesh trap if the water was deep enough. Later we heard that marsh creak supposedly contained higher than normal levels of mercury. But the creeks potential wasn't just in supplying poison crawdads, it also had massive oaks lining its banks, oaks with rope swing potential. There had been one rope swing back in Antioch a mile or so away from our old house on Marble Drive. It was quite popular until someone (so the story goes) went flying off into the bushes and came walking out with a stick poking through his eye and into his brain. He walked home, went to the hospital and had the thing removed with no permanent damage (so the story goes). I never knew the kid, or his name, but like many of the us that frequented the rope swing I grew to dislike him, whoever he was. Dislike because Stick-Brain-Boy was used as proof that the rope swing was dangerous, it was cut down and monitored by police for a while to be sure it didn't get put back up. As far as I know it never did. There were other rope swings here and there but nothing special, nothing with the potential that the creek oaks near our new home had.
Finding
There are a few essential things you need for a good rope swing; a steep slope, a good tall tree with far reaching branches on it, and most importantly, a rope. And if you are lucky enough to find all of those you'll need two more things; someone than can be conned into climbing out onto the limb to tie the rope and someone else duped into testing out his knot. When we found the tree it was clear that there had never been a tree better suited for a rope swing than this one. It clung to the side of the steep creek bank, and the area below was cleared due to a gravel road that came down into the creek and followed it for a few hundred feet before climbing up the other side. The limbs stretched out in all directions, one being perfectly situated over the center of the clearing. Now we needed a very long rope. Just before the start of my freshman year of high school we moved into the new house. Time enough had gone by that I was no longer actively looking for a rope; I just kept it in the back of my mind. Weeks or months later I was on my bike riding down Marsh Creek road toward the John Marsh home on some adventure or another and there was the rope. I veered toward it, as the sun burst through the clouds, and the birds started to sing. I hit the brakes too hard, everything slowed down, dust and gravel hung in the air, the bike balanced oddly on its front tire, and I drifted slowly through the air toward the rope. I grabbed it as I rolled never taking my eyes off of it. I came out of the roll with a length of the rope in my hands resting on my haunches, dust settling all around me. Amazed at my luck I lifted an end of the rope to covet it. The rope was more than an inch think, very long and very heavy. I began looking around, a ravenous beast protecting my scrap of meet. I coiled the rope again and again around my neck and shoulders and struggled over to my bike but was unable to ride with it on. I briefly considered stashing it, but feared that portal to some parallel universe from which the rope had obviously come, would open in my absence and greedy little hands of some parallel self would snatch it back into oblivion. No, that was a risk I could not take. Somehow I managed to lug it home.
Building
The tree was tall, very tall. Death being on the line I had to climb up and tie the rope myself. There were a few rotten boards nailed into the tree from some primitive child's attempt to explore the heights of the tree. When I reached the end of the ancient rungs I was merely to broken arm or leg height, with still a long way to go. From there I had to use the rope itself to climb, the limbs being too far apart from one another. I'd throw the rope up over a high branch and use it to pull myself up. Eventually I was standing on the limb that I would tie the rope to. I leaned against the trunk to catch my breath and tend to a few wounds. The branch was wide enough just to walk out on, but that presented a problem in wrapping the rope around it. My arms wouldn't fit around to hand one end to the other. I figured I'd just swing the rope with one hand and try to catch it with the other. While reaching out to catch the rope I lost my balance and nearly fell out of the tree. Unable to think of any other way to get the rope around at the moment, and being impatient, I kept swinging the rope around the limb with eventual success. The knot was tied. But would it hold? "Michael" I yelled, "its ready give it a try". It held.
Flying
At first we just jumped from the bank beside the tree trunk, feeling brave with our twists and backwards jumps. We inched our way higher and higher on the bank but soon tired of that launching spot and sought for another. We found a unlikely and scrawny oak tree that was in the proper location, branches so small that they would snap off if we were not careful to place our weight near the trunk. Though any pity we may have felt for the little tree could not spare it as it proved to be an exponentially exhilarating launch spot. It was taller, more dangerous and we didn't have to worry about crashing back into the trunk of the giant oak on our return trip. The greatest feat of daring that was ever performed from the second launch spot was that of Carl Pantel. Carl, being large in stature, was not well suited to launch spot two. I don't remember anyone coaxing him, but all of a sudden there he was clambering up the scrawny little oak tree. I watched, shocked, speechless and at the same time morbidly curious of how the baleful disaster would unfold. I couldn't help but think of Horton up in his tree oblivious to the fact that he didn't belong there. We cringed at each broken branch and the trees awkward tilt as he climbed. Incredibly he reached his precarious perch and called for the rope, now a mere thread that would snap with the slightest pull. Someone needed to stop this madness. My finger lifted as my mouth began to open... as time slowed and he took flight. He was out of the tree twisting and tumbling toward the hard rocky slope below when with a groan and a stretch the rope caught his weight and shot him skimming across the creek and rising high into the air on the other side. There was a whoop of delight from Carl and the echoing of exhales from everyone else as breathing resumed. As far as I remember he never jumped again. Launch spot two lead to the discovery of the great and final launch spot. If it were possible to get enough speed from the small oak tree our trajectory would have placed us height up in the fork of a much taller tree on the other side of the creek. The fork was nearly the height of the branch that held the rope itself. We found a way to climb up and a means of getting the rope up to the jumper. Their was a slight problem in the math that equated to not being able to straddle the cross board prior to launch as was done from the other spots. The rope wasn't quite long enough and you had to lean out to get one hand on the rope the other anchoring you to the tree. To launch you'd jump out toward the rope, position the cross board between your legs with your free hand while floating in the air, and grab hold of the rope before free fall ended. The rope would catch your weight and fling you across the creek, eyes watering, cheeks pulling back, tongue flapping in the wind, and hurl you high into the air above the skinny oak. There a weightless silence enveloped you as you rolled back toward the earth to begin the decent. In the beginning we'd slow down naturally swinging back and forth and back and forth as we bask in the exhilaration of it all. Eventually we'd dig our heals into the gravel as soon as we could not being satisfied with anything but the initial circuit.Losing
We were always careful to put the rope up after each use; we'd climb the end of it high into the tree to insure that it wasn't easily accessible to anyone that might leave it dangling. We never had a run in with cars as they seldom traversed the creek. We were careful not to give anyone a reason to remove it. Then one day I made the trek down to the creek and the rope swing had been destroyed. It had been cut in half about the height of someone standing on top of a truck. Not wanting to believe this was the end of the rope swing, believing there would be some way to repair it I went on a mission of reclamation. My hands shaking, fighting back tears of outrage, I stormed over to a near by house where I though I'd likely find the guilty party. Unable to hide the accusation from my voice I demanded to know what they did with my rope. They didn't know anything about it. I don't imagine that they even knew the swing existed. I wanted to believe they were at fault and lying about cutting rope but I couldn't. I didn't have the strength or courage after the initial confrontation to go down the road accusing other neighbors of destroying our rope swing. I didn't want to know of anyone else's innocence, the whole world was guilty at that moment. The frayed length of rope still dangles from the tree. Perhaps in some future it will inspire a boy or girl to turn off the TV or drop the video game controller and begin the quest for the perfect rope.
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