Most of my early traveling was along beautiful highways and byways, but in my teenage years I discovered that life is truly “like a box of chocolates” just like Forrest Gump said it was!

There was always the unexpected, the valleys, the mountains, the crevasses, the steep, the rigid and experiences that seemed impossible. In the middle of a sunny day a huge black thunderstorm would arise, bringing hazards over which we had no control. We were caught up in destructive winds, hail, lightning and torrents of rain.

In the eye of the storm there is a sense of stillness and calm, and there God is found to give the needed assurance in the final wave of the storm — if we stay with the storm and ride it through, there is a beautiful rainbow waiting. The sun shines again as if nothing ever happened. The diversities of the journey had enhanced the beauty of the portrait.

All of us have experiences that are traumatic, that will always be part of us, adding to the total picture. Around the unexpected curve in the road of life will inevitably come traumatic experiences. When I had just turned 12, our scoutmaster was teaching us tenderfoots how to swim. We were swinging from a rope tied on an ancient cypress tree overhanging Monterey Lake. We held on to the rope until it dropped in the water and we would have to swim a short distance to the bank. Learning to swim would very shortly save my life (this was the same place where my Grandmother Cochran had brought us to picnic in a wagon in 1923 when I was 4).

My father had a strong black man named Manchi Stephens, who worked for him in his plumbing business in Vivian. I loved Manchi very dearly, and one Friday night we walked two miles back to the water plant to fish in the Jones pond — it was cool enough for us to be wearing jackets. Just as we set our trot lines a storm came up, creating strong winds, which sank our small wooden boat.

Manchi was a good swimmer, but this night he was wearing tall rubber boots. As our light went to the bottom we were left in total darkness.

I remember Manchi saying, “Ken, are you all right?”

I answered “I think I can make it.”

After struggling for some time I drug myself onto the bank and called “Manchi, Manchi, Manchi” and then there was a faint cry — “Ken, I’m going down” — and then there was silence and darkness. I cried “hold on and I will get a stick to you!”

I thrashed around in the water until I became exhausted, but it was all over. I was left cold, shaking and crying in total darkness. I don’t remember how, but in some way I tore through the briars, brush and woods and found my way back to the water plant. I ran the last one-half mile to our house on the hill totally exhausted and reported this to my father.

I was unable to sleep as I lay next to the window and listened to the rain blowing against the window panes. There was a tapping against the window panes and I heard a voice that I never forgot “Ken, I’m Manchi’s wife, please tell me what happened to Manchi?”

Amidst sobbing and crying it all faded into that dark, cold night, never to be forgotten.

Manchi’s body was found the next day. I’ve never been back to Jones pond.

Ken Cochran is an author and a retired Caddo Parish principal who lives on Caddo Lake near Mooringsport.

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