Mark, Joe, and Chris were all friends back in the day. We’re talking about the early 1970s when kids were shoved outside and told to play, often unsupervised and unregulated. But for the three boys, they didn’t think much about that. Mark was a bit of a loudmouth and opinionated on every subject. A fan of Muhammad Ali and the Oylmpics, sports were Mark’s thing. He tried everything to get Joe and Chris to participate in school sports, convincing them to play soccer and baseball. Mark’s family, mainly his mother, were devout Catholics. His mom insisted on Mark wearing a St. Jude medal whenever he played. Whether that was due to his propensity to injury or if she thought he was a lost cause went right over the boy’s heads. They didn’t care so long as Mark was there to watch over them.

Joe wasn’t a sports guy. Truth be told, he’d rather be inside reading a book or telling a story. But none of that mattered if Mark insisted on playing soccer or baseball. Joe’s mom and dad were more protective of their oldest son, even though they often made him bring his younger brother James wherever he went. James had his own friends, but he liked playing with Mark and especially Chris, only because Chris paid more attention to him than Joe did. Joe’s family were practicing Christians, attending church most Sundays, sitting in the pews, and dressing in their Sunday best. Well, as best as you could for a seven-year-old and five-year-old.

Chris enjoyed playing soccer but hated baseball. The bat hurt his hands when he connected with the ball. It happened often, and with a wooden ball bat, the vibrations were too much for him. Chris threatened Mark with quitting the team, but, somehow, Joe was the one who convinced him to stick it out. Chris had a baby sister who would be two in a few months, so he was home a lot because his Jewish parents insisted on keeping an eye on him. Personally, if you had asked him, Chris would say he loved his baby sister, wanting to spend as much time with her as he could. That would change in a few years, as it does with most siblings, but for the moment, Chris liked her.

“Man, you are so spoiled!” Mark wasn’t listening to either Joe or Chris. The subject of bathing came up, particularly showering and soap. “Your mom makes you wash up? You don’t do it yourself, Chris? Sheesh. What kind of mama’s boy lets his mom wash him?”

Joe wasn’t listening to Mark, ignoring most of his tirade. “Leave him alone,” Joe replied. “You’ve met his mom. She’s a bit overbearing anyway.” Most seven-year-olds wouldn’t know that word, overbearing. But Joe, having read more than his fair share of books in kindergarten, had a vocabulary that rivaled most adults. “Chris,” Joe slapped him on his back, “It’s not a big deal. I take a shower two or three times a week. I don’t get all that dirty.”

“Well, I do,” Mark shouted with pride.

“No one cares, Mark.” Chris shot back. It was rare for Chris to respond to Mark. Most of the time, he kept to himself, opting to speak to Joe more than him. “Hey Joe, you wanna go check out the swamp?”

A few blocks from where Joe and Mark lived was a vacant lot filled with fallen trees, brush, and about six feet of water in spots. Seattle was nefarious for copious amounts of rain, meaning the lot never dried out. It was the best place to find tadpoles and frogs. It stunk to high heaven, but none of the boys cared about that. They didn’t mind the mud either, but their moms did!

“Yeah!” Joe yelled. “Follow me!” He ran down the street, the short hill down to 2nd Avenue South was steep enough that running down got a lot of wind. At least the three boys thought so.

“Wait for me!” Mark shouted, tearing down the hill after Chris and Joe. At the bottom was the swamp’s edge, marked by a small hole in the brush, just big enough for three boys to climb through. Thankfully, the mud dried, meaning that the scramble through the brush was less dirty than Chris thought it might be. Joe hated getting dirt, or anything for that matter, on his hands, so he was more than a little happy about there not being any mud through their ‘secret entrance.’ None of the boys pictured anyone other than the three of them traversing the swampy area. Years later, they would remember some telltale signs of homeless people; candy wrappers, empty cigarette packs, three ripped-up moldy sleeping bags, and some discarded clothing. Adults today would see those things and know not to intrude on that space. But Joe, Mark, and Chris didn’t know.

Once through the brushy opening, the swamp was a magical place, filled with mossy trees, fallen over through one storm or another, growing sapling trees, mushrooms, mud, and stagnant water. Water bugs, a fascination of all three kids, skated on the water.

“Man, this is so cool!” Joe shouted. Their voices couldn’t be heard outside the swamp. The debris scattered throughout the two-acre lot was dense enough to stop any reverberations. “Follow me!” Joe ran up and down a downed tree, under another one, and wrapped his legs around the third, scootching up the tree to the end of the lot. From his vantage point, he could see the other side of the street. Mark and Chris caught up to him, looking down.

“That’s a lot of water, Joe,” Chris said, peering into the dark water. The murky water was almost black. Or maybe that was the shadows on the water. None of the boys knew how deep it was, but that would change in a second.

“I wonder how deep it is,” Joe said, not thinking his words would evoke a chain reaction from his friends.

“Me too,” Mark said, jumping off the tree. He sunk into the water, his head going under.

“Mark!” Chris shouted. “Mark!”

“Hey, Mark!” Joe shouted. Joe and Chris panicked, wondering what they would tell Mark’s mom. Two seconds later, both boys would claim it was much longer than that. Mark popped up, gasping for breath.

“Quick!” Chris shouted to Joe, “grab his hand!” Joe grabbed ahold of Mark, his hand slick from the oily water. Both boys struggled to hold onto each other, but somehow, Joe pulled him up to the fallen tree.

“This is your fault,” Mark spat at Joe, shivering from the cold water.