I was eleven years old as I skinny dipped in the water trap on the golf course. Antonio, Jimmy, some kid whose name I can't recall, and I knew we were not allowed to be there. Yet, being thick skulled boys, we ripped off our clothes and jumped in anyway. The thought that a golf ball might hit us in the head never bothered us. If we saw golfers up at the tee, we'd simply swim behind the cat-tails That way, we would be hidden and the golf ball would not get through. Well, that is what we thought. Fortunately, those who did golf there never landed one in the drink.
Unfortunately, we lost track of the time. I glanced over and saw my brother barreling over the fairway. He would not tell on us, but he had that "you're in trouble" look on his face.
"Get home now!" he said frantically. "They (meaning our parents, who are always "they") have been looking for your for an hour!"
I quickly gathered my clothes and somehow dressed while running back to the house. My father stood on the porch with a stern look on his face.
"Where have you been?" he demanded. "We've got revival at church tonight and now we're going to be late!" For an eleven year old boy, the word "revival" meant that it was time to be tortured for a few hours by a screaming man with cotton candy hair. Normally, I tried to catch up on my drawing or sleep if possible.
"I was just playing, dad." He studied me for a moment before commenting inquiring further.
"What exactly were you doing?" Now here it could have been fuzzy, but when he used "exactly" I knew he wanted a direct response. So I gave him one.
"We were wading in some water."
"No, just wading..."
My father grabbed my wet hair and looked me in the face. "Wading way over your head I see!"
That evening, I sat in revival like a statue. My only prayer was that I would be able to sit in school the next day. I learned something about lying as well. It is better to be honest because you never know when your wet hair will give you away.