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I was born in the heart of America, Kansas City, but raised in the Panama Canal Zone. My dad became a tugboat captain and we lived in a seaside township called Coco Solo. It was a blue collar paradise of coconuts, mangoes, and maids. Uncle Sam owned the Canal, the Zone, the land, our houses, our jobs, and for the most part, us. It was American socialism at its best.
Our slice of paradise was unique in the world. Yet the aches, pangs, and restlessness of adolescence are universal. As a fifteen year old red blooded boy I felt caged in a small town and lost in a large family. Too old to look cool on a bicycle and too young for a Buick, I became enamored by anything with two wheels and an engine.
Everything came to a head one tropical night when I found myself alone on someone else’s Italian scooter. Testosterone trumps common sense and the next thing I knew; I was risking exile as a juvenile delinquent for the thrill of a joyride. The excitement was undeniable until the engine quit and left me stranded on a swamp road, surrounded by an army of crabs.
This short story is one of a collection of excerpts from my pending memoir, All American Colonial Boy, coming of age in the Panama Canal Zone. Washburn University selected this creative non-fiction piece for publication in their literary journal, Inscape 2011.
Volume two is a collection of five stories I wrote for the Canal Record titled Five Coconuts and available on Kindle.
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