Coming to Grips with the Fact That You're About to Die Isn't As Hard As You Might Think

The Sandpit

Coming to grips with the fact that you're about to die isn't as hard as you might think. When you're in a situation that you know is hopeless, and you know there is no miraculous rescue attempt on its way, it can be easy to just set aside your fear and get on with living the few moments you have left. Besides, why waste your last breath screaming?

I know what you're thinking; it's easy for me to say that because I'm not dying. I have been though, and I learned that lesson the hard way.

I was 14, and my sister Jamie and I had been walking around the desert for the last six hours, lost and confused and afraid. We hadn't planned on being there that morning, and I certainly hadn't planned on finding the sinkhole the way I did. She was only slightly luckier than me in the fact that she wasn't about to get buried alive, but she would be completely on her own in just a few minutes.

That day had started... okay. Normal. Breakfast in front of the TV, and the perpetual argument over which shows we were going to watch, even though I always won. It was Saturday, and we had a whole day of teasing each other to look forward to, just like every weekend.

This particular day changed when my dad finally got around to fixing the rear wheel on my bike.

Not to let a good setup for an argument go to waste, my sister and I got to work at the top of our lungs deciding who would be the first to ride it. She won that one, but in my defense, she's a lot bigger and older than I am. Most of our fights that have any kind of muscle involved end up with her winning; I dominate her in the purely verbal types.

A very unusual compromise ended this one; she controlled the handlebars and pedaled it, I rode on the back. I should have known right then to lay off riding and just let her have her way; agreeing with her on anything made it one too many things out of the ordinary, and that always means bad luck. But it was my bicycle! I paid for it, I rode it, and I broke it! I'd be damned if I'd let her have it to herself.

Now, when you live in the middle of nowhere, west Texas, you learn the whole area by heart pretty young. There's very little left to explore by the time you're eight years old. Today being a special occasion and all, and by that I mean we had something to do for a change, Jamie and I decided to follow the rail tracks down to the pig farm, about eight miles or so. When you're young, eight miles can seem like the other side of the world and just a bit down the road at the same time.

We rode the block to the where the tracks crossed Route 86, we turned right and headed towards the farm. That’s when I figured I had actually won the argument; she had to pedal with me on the bars, and it was proving to be a hot day already. Once we were on our way, my sister and I came to that point we always do when the fight's over and we're actually doing something together; we talked. We always talk, about anything from school to chores, and everything in between. The only taboo subject lately had been the guy that had been coming over to see her on occasion. That was something destined to get me slugged, and we hardly ever actually came to slinging fists over anything. It was obvious to me she really liked the guy, and honestly I thought he was okay, except for his serious lack of judgment where my sister was involved.

So we talked about anything else. I don't really remember exactly what we talked about that morning. You know how it is when you just talk; what's said isn't as important as just the talking.