The Moth Radio Hour: Stuck!
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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows. From New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more, The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.

To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginness. In this episode, four stories about being stuck. Stories about being frozen, caught, and basically unable to move forward.

Our first story from Alistair Bain takes place on the pulpit of a church in Oklahoma, and he developed this story for a Moth main stage in Texas that was presented along with the San Antonio Book Festival. Here's Alistair Bain live at the Moth. I'm from the Eastern Shawnee tribe of Oklahoma, but I've lived in Denver, Colorado for quite a few years. I have a friend that also lives in Denver who's originally from Oklahoma, the Cherokee Nation.

A few years ago, we got talking about how homesick we were. And he suggested that we could go spend a couple of weeks with his grandma, who said he didn't visit nearly enough anyway. So we made our plans. We got in the car for the 12-hour drive. And on the way there, we talked about everything we missed. Fry bread and powwows and stomp dances.

and hearing our people speak our own languages. By the time we got to Oklahoma, I was so happy to be home. We were maybe three or four miles from his grandma's house when he said there were a couple of things he maybe should tell me about. The first was that his grandmother might not be particularly fond of Shawnee people.

This was because of a thing that had happened between our tribes in the late 1800s, which might seem like a long time ago to some people, but she remembered. The second thing he said was that she could be a little bit persistent about inviting people to go to church with her on Sunday. Right away, I knew what he meant.

In modern day Oklahoma, Native people have an eclectic array of spiritual beliefs. Some follow our traditional ways, others have joined various congregations. I grew up with an Irish Catholic mother and a Shawnee father, and so I was very open to all kinds of different spiritual beliefs. But as I'd grown up, it was our traditional ways that had spoken to my heart.

However, when I went back home, I'd still get a lot of invitations to go to church. Although I really appreciated it, I usually politely declined because there was always an undercurrent of hoping that I might be converted. And I really don't like to disappoint people.

So I promised my friend that I could be diplomatic with his grandmother if she was persistent with her invitations, and I even thought that maybe I could win her over to like Shawnee people. We got to the house and went inside. He introduced us. I addressed her as Miss Myrtle to show extra respect. She was a strong-looking 75-year-old with roller-set hair. Her greeting was polite but not particularly warm.

But over the next week, I took her to Tulsa to run errands. I fixed her chicken coop, and I used all my best manners. And by that Friday, I was winning her over. At dinner that night, she said to me, You know, Alistair, it's been nice having you here. Now, you know this Sunday is Mother's Day. Of course, at my age, I never know if this could be my last Mother's Day. She said...

There's just one thing I want on this Mother's Day. Do you know what that is? I said, no, Miss Myrtle, I don't. She said, I would like you to be my special guest at church on Sunday. She said, of course, I know you're into your traditional ways. So if you don't feel comfortable going, it's okay. As long as you know, this could be my last Mother's Day.

and I wouldn't get the one thing that I want. When an invitation is put like that, there was really only one thing that I could say, which was, "I would love to be your special guest on Mother's Day." So that Sunday, we got in the car. Miss Myrtle was in the front seat. My friend was driving. I was in the back seat. She turned around, smiled at me, and said, "You don't know how happy I am today." We got to the church.

It was a one-room country church. There were about 50, 60 people there that day, mostly elders from Miss Myrtle's tribe. The services started, and they weren't that different from the ones that I remembered my mom taking me to when I was young, until they got to one part that I was completely unfamiliar with.

In this part of the service, people could walk up the center aisle, put some money into this little wood collection box, and that bought them the privilege of inviting somebody from the congregation up to sing a special. A special, it turns out, is a solo hymn. A few people walked up, donated their money,

selected their guests, their guests all sang beautifully and everyone was happy. And then Miss Myrtle started up the aisle. She was kind of elderly, so it felt like it took her a long time to reach the front of the church. When she did, she carefully folded her money, put it into the box, scanned the congregation, found me, and said,

My grandson brought a friend with him from Denver to visit. His name is Alistair and he is from the Eastern Shawnee tribe, but he's a very nice person. Alistair, I would like you to come up here and sing us a special. I immediately began making shy no gestures and grinning kind of the way my dog does when it's in another sofa cushion.

But there is an old man behind me, behind me on the back saying, "Go on up there and sing, son. I can tell by looking at you, you're a singer." That was the moment that I realized how true the old adage is that looks can be deceiving.

But my friend had grabbed me by the arm and was guiding me over his knees in the narrow pew. He said, "Grandma's gonna be so happy." And the next thing I knew, I was out in the center aisle, and it almost felt like there was some invisible force propelling me towards the front of the church. It could have been God.

And I was hoping that if it was God, that when I reached the microphone, God would choose that moment to work a super big miracle and make it so that I could sing and I knew any hymns at all. I reached the microphone, I waited, didn't seem like any big miracles were imminent, but I told myself it was going to be okay.

I did have some stage and singing experience back in the 90s when I lived in San Francisco and I was in a goth band called The Flesh Orchids. It was a little bit different venue, but it was stage and singing experience.

And then I thought back to when I was real young and my mom had sent me to Catholic school. It was the 70s and there had been this hippie nun that used to come out with a guitar at recess and sing hymns on the playground. And she always sang this one, Michael, roll your boat ashore. I was like, oh, oh, I do know him. I do. I know Michael, roll your boat ashore. And so I turned to the organist who was waiting patiently. I was like...

"Michael, row your boat ashore, please, ma'am." She smiled, nodded. Good selection. The music started, and about the place that I felt like there should be some words, I started to sing. ♪ Michael, row your boat ashore ♪ ♪ Hallelujah ♪ ♪ Michael, row your boat ashore ♪

It was about the time that I reached the second "Alleluia" that I realized that was in fact the only line I remembered. But Shawnees have never been quitters. So I decided there can be different versions of the same song. There can be like extended dance remixes where vocals are looped repetitively.

And so I thought, I'll sing the line four times, give it a little bit of a rest, sing it four more, and so on for a total of 16 times, which seemed long enough to be a real song. So that was what I did. About halfway through, I closed my eyes, 'cause sometimes it's better not to see your audience. And while I stood there singing,

I had plenty of time for existential questions like, "Who is Michael?" "Why does God want him to row his boat ashore?" And then finally, I hit that line for the 16th time and I stopped. The organist, who was not quite sure what was happening, continued to play for a minute

But when she realized it was finally over, she stopped in kind of an abrupt way. And then there was silence. And in that silence, I walked back down the center aisle. I started to climb back over my friend's knees. As I did, our eyes met. And he just said, "Dude." I sat back down. Miss Myrtle was on the other side of me.

She wasn't making eye contact, and her posture seemed somewhat rigid. But once I was settled in my seat, she leaned slightly towards me and quietly said, "I don't believe I've ever met someone that didn't know at least one hymn." There wasn't a whole lot I could say about that, so I was just like, "Happy Mother's Day." I pretty much know what happened after we left the church that day.

Everyone who had been there told all of their extended family, who told all the other people in the tribe, who told people in neighboring tribes, until everyone in all nine tribes in Ottawa County knew what I had done that day. The only way that anyone would ever forget is if someone came along and did something much worse. I don't know if that's happened yet.

But when I go back home, any invitations to be anyone's special guest on Sunday are far and few between. Alistair Bain lives in Denver, Colorado. In addition to telling stories, he's a visual artist, quilter, and clothing designer. In his spare time, he rehabilitates feral dogs from the reservation. He says it's a much more relaxing hobby than it might sound, as long as you don't mind a tiny bit of growling.

Alistair still goes home to Oklahoma a couple times a year, especially for his tribe's annual Eastern Shawnee Pow Wow in the fall. He says, it is my firm belief that at least 43% of the population of Ottawa County and portions of the bordering state of Missouri have forgotten about my version of Michael Row Your Boat Ashore. To see a photo of Alistair at the Eastern Shawnee Pow Wow, go to themoth.org. ♪

After our break, stranded in Vegas without a dollar to your name, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. Hallelujah. Michael Rowe, the boat ashore. Hallelujah. Michael Rowe, the boat ashore. Hallelujah.

Michael Rowe, the boat ashore, Alley-oo. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginness.

Our next story in this hour about being stuck was told at one of the first Grand Slam competitions The Moth ever produced, way back in the early 2000s. A Grand Slam is the night that 10 winners of the local open mic story slams face off to see who will be crowned champion. Here's John Levin, live at The Moth in New York City. Hi.

I was on a vacation with my girlfriend. We were in San Francisco staying with friends of hers. And this vacation was supposed to smooth over a bad time we were going through, but it didn't work. And I was cracking at the seams, and I picked the worst possible moment to just lose it. Right when he got to her friend's place, right in front of all of her friends who I've just met, I pick a ridiculous fight with her. And I'm hearing myself just spewing utter nonsense, really hurtful things. It was just ridiculous. And she's...

She's responding calmly and rationally until she's just had enough and she up and leaves and flies back to Boston without me insisting that I not follow her and her vacation is blown and she never wants to see me again and that's that. And I'm stuck in San Francisco with her friends who hate my guts and rightfully so and I'm depending on them for their hospitality because I have to live somewhere. So, and they're somehow perfectly willing to put me up and I stay there for one sleepless night

And then I couldn't face them, so as soon as day broke, I bolted out of there, and I just make my way into San Francisco, hoping that this beautiful city will somehow take my mind off of things, and it just didn't work. Because there's, like, this beautiful weather and beautiful, happy people everywhere, and I'm, like, the only maladjusted person on the western coast, and I had to get out of there before I killed somebody. So I took a one-way bus to Las Vegas. Whoo!

Fifteen hours later, I get off the bus, and I haven't eaten or slept in days. Do I get a bite to eat or a room for the night? No, I walk straight over to the nearest roulette table and gamble all my money away. So now I'm sitting in the Vegas bus station with no girlfriend, no job, no money, no way out of Vegas, nothing to do in Vegas because I had no money,

And nothing to do but just look at all the other people in the bus station. And so I realized, wow, I actually fit in here. My choices in life have led me to this place. You know, it's the worst place in the world, but I fit in here. It's better than San Francisco on that level. So, but of course I have, you know, no idea how I'm going to save myself from this hell. So I finally break down and call Laura, collect, and

And, you know, she answers the phone and took her a minute to realize who it was. And I explained my situation to her and I needed some of her hard-earned money to be put into my bank account so I could escape from this situation. And she was very gracious and she heard me out and she said, "What are you, fucking out of your mind? I'll think about it, Click." And that was the first time that the full gravity of my situation really occurred to me.

So I sat back down, and maybe six hours later, the first interesting thing happens. A man named Daniel sits down next to me, introduces himself, and he's an obvious con man. He makes no effort to hide the fact that he wants to steal something from me. Of course, I have nothing.

I mean, I have nothing in the world. So the guy's entertaining. What's the worst he can do? Kill me. And at this point, I'm thinking, this will be an improvement. So I go away from the bus station with this guy. And so I go off and have a weird day with this guy. And finally, you know, like around 2 in the afternoon, I check my bank balance, and Laura had come through. I could take out some money. I bought us a plate of fried clams for lunch. And then...

I'm sort of wondering what this guy's game is or would have been, so I stick around with him. And, you know, there was another eight hours till the next bus out of there, so I had nothing better to do. And I didn't want to go back into a casino. So after Night Falls, we're walking along the abandoned railroad tracks behind the Vegas Strip. We're drinking Budweiser and whiskey. And when he's drunk enough, he suggests that he should show me some cool martial arts moves that he knows.

And I'm like, aha, this is what I've been waiting for all day. This must be the overt act of aggression that I have no idea what form it's going to take or what he hopes to gain by this, but let's go with this.

So he does this arm thing to me and it could like break my arm but he lets me up and he shows me how to do it to him so I do the arm thing to him and I could break his arm but I don't and then he's like Then he's like, okay, now I'm gonna put you in this cool choke hold and if you can't break out of it, tap me on the arm and I'll let you go. I'm like, okay, here we go. So he, this guy lifts me off the ground by my neck.

And my feet are swinging, and I can't breathe, and there's no blood flow to my head. And things are getting darker, and so I tap him on the shoulder. Like, I'm flailing around, there's nothing to grab onto. It's like he isn't even there. So he doesn't let me go. And I'm like, all right. I tap him again, just for good measure, but he doesn't let me go. And so I'm thinking, oh, okay, so he's killing me for the contents of my wallet. That was the game. That's like...

really disappointing. I wasted my day for this. I have like $30. But then I'm thinking, well, alright, death. Well, here's a new thing. It's not much of a life that I'm losing after all, but then in the few moments before absolute nothing, a vision of my parents popped into my head. And I realized that they're going to get news of this and to them it's going to be a tragedy.

And I couldn't bear the thought of how it would hit them. And my brother, in college, having to deal with this. And Laura, who, even though we'd been fighting, there's no way she would have wanted this to happen. And it was going to level her. So I became very sad. And I realized, probably for the first time in my life, that my life isn't just about me. Of course, great revelation, you're not going to get a chance to act on it. Because you're being killed. Laughter

So the last thought I had was, oh no, I don't want this. And then everything went black. That was John Levin. John lives in San Francisco where he's an apartment building manager and freelance handyman. He says now, almost 20 years later, he's living the best life that was left after he burned all his other bridges to the ground.

John's story ends on a bit of a cliffhanger. I mean, clearly John lives, but we wanted to hear the aftermath, so I called him. Well, yeah, I did black out. I lost consciousness and then had what I have come to learn is a fairly typical kind of near-death experience. It was sort of similar to what you might have heard as I kind of re-experienced my life.

except it was an idealized version of what my life would have been as opposed to a literal retelling of my life. But then the guy I was with, the lunatic, was reviving me. I was lying flat on my back on

on the ground, and he was kneeling beside me, kind of gently slapping me in the face, saying, "Come on back, come on back." And so I felt myself being pulled out of that very pleasant experience back into myself lying on the ground in Las Vegas. And that was extremely unpleasant, as you might imagine.

So then I go and withdraw enough to buy a bus ticket back to San Francisco. And then eventually I fly back to Boston, apologize profusely to Laura, who very graciously takes me back. We reconciled. And since I was broke, I had no choice but to get my life together. And so I immediately went out and got a job.

And that's how that whole episode of my life resolved. That was John Levin. Our next storyteller is Noriko Roasted. Noriko was born and raised in Japan, and she was part of a Moth community storytelling workshop with New Women New Yorkers, which is a group that empowers young women immigrants in New York City. Here's Noriko live at the Moth. My husband and I were very excited about our upcoming trip to Italy.

But we had a big issue, which is our cat, Spencer. He's a two-year-old male tabby cat. We adopted him from a local animal shelter when he was a kitten. And we love him. He's like our child. So we're like, what are we going to do with Spencer? We just relocated from Japan to New York. We don't have any family, no friends here yet.

So, and the only person we could think of was 15-year-old American boy who's living in the same apartment building. We see him here and there doing some errands for the residents to make some more money. But he was, he's a little bit quirky, typical teenage boy, looks like only thinking about girls and football.

and his hair is loose, his clothes is loose, his attitude is loose. And we are like, "Oh, forget about it. We cannot leave our Spencer to the kid." We have to find a decent and responsible adult. And one person crossed my mind. She's Japanese, like me.

I met her through a library program and I remember she mentioned she loves cats and she used to be a vet and she always looking for a volunteer opportunity at animal shelter to take care of cats. So one day I walked up to her at the library saying it was really awkward moment but

"Look, I know this is a huge favor and definitely you can say no, but would you be interested in taking care of Spencer while I'm away?" She said immediately, "Oh, I'd love to. This is gonna be great." I was like, "What a generous person." And so I went to an apartment in Upper West to drop off Spencer.

And when I entered the apartment, the four walls were pictures and paintings of cats all over. And on the shelves were a quite variety of funny cat figures. It was a little bit too much, but clearly she loves cats, which is good. And so I explained about food, which is only dry food.

two times a day and the amount is one cup per meal, no snack. And she said, oh, that's quite simple and easy, no problem. And I thanked her and flew to Italy with my husband. Day one, I got text message from her saying, Spencer is doing great.

He ate food and he did both things in his toilet and everything's great. No, no worry. Please enjoy your vacation. She even attached a picture of Spencer. He's lying on the couch and he looked very comfortable. And day two,

I got another text. I was like, "Wow, is she sending me a daily report of Spencer?" I didn't even ask her. But I know this is so typical of Japanese. We are very detailed and hospitable people. I'm very happy that I asked her. And I opened the text. She said, "Spencer is a little bit strange. He didn't eat food.

He's not coming out from under the bed. He's not moving. I didn't know what's going on. So I was trying to figure out. It has never happened before. But do you have any idea what the cause might be? And she replied, actually, he ate a tiny part of my socks. So to help digestion, I gave him chia seed oil. What is chia seed oil?

And she continued further, "By the way, the food amount that you give Spencer is too little, so I gave him wet food that I had at home." I was like, "Why does she do that?" We agreed with the instructions. So I said in a polite way, "Please don't give him anything but what he usually eats."

And she responded back immediately, "I know what Katz needs. I used to be a vet. I have more experience than you." I was, "What is wrong with her?" And I exchanged many texts, and her tone was really escalating every text. And she was really attacking me.

but it's like hostage negotiation. You still have to maintain certain level of cooperation or willingness. But at one point it went out of control and I was really, really concerned about Spencer's safety.

But I didn't know what to do. I'm in Italy, Spencer is in danger. My heart was pumping fast, I was crying. I was so desperate that I had to reach out to the 15-year-old American boy. And I explained the long story and said, "Sorry, I know this is a lot to ask,

"But is there any chance that you could retrieve Spencer?" And I knew he was still at school, so I waited. And an hour later, my phone beeped. It was from him. I opened the text very nervously. He said, "Sure, just give me her address." I said,

You have no idea how much it means to me. You are my hero. Okay, so her address is this and this. He texted me back with emoji a guy saluting. Got it.

And he did it. He did. He went up to Upper West and retrieved Spencer from the lady and brought him back to Brooklyn and stayed with him until I came back home. So the guy who I thought was just wannabe Justin Bieber saved the day, and he's my hero to this day. Thank you.

That was Noriko Roasted. Noriko lives in Brooklyn with her husband and Spencer the Cat. All three of them believe in hygge, a Danish concept of taking pleasure in the simple things in life. Noriko works in the legal and banking industry, and she says, "My life is rather regulated, so I'm curious to explore the liberated nature of New York and discover if I have an unknown mini New Yorker in me."

These days, Noriko still relies on the American boy to look after Spencer, but she says that's only for weekend trips. On longer trips, she takes Spencer with her, like to her husband's native Denmark for a two-week vacation last Christmas. To see a photo of Spencer at the airport inside his travel backpack, go to themoth.org.

After our break, our last story about one fateful day on the Colorado River when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org.

You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginness. Taylor Tower tells our last story in this hour all about being caught in the in-between. The story is tied to her dad. Taylor's parents were divorced and she only saw her father a few times when she was young. She remembers him as this mysterious, fun person. But Taylor spent her childhood stuck between believing different versions of who her dad really was because everyone in her family had their own opinion.

Here's Taylor Tower live at the Moth Main Stage in Denver, Colorado. So it's 1995, the beginning of summer, and I'm waiting for my dad to pick me up for the end of season T-ball trophy dinner. This is a huge deal, okay, because my parents split up when I was two, and so I only get to see my dad for a handful of days out of the year, and I really look forward to it all year long. And usually,

I'm just like, it's gonna be so fun. It's gonna be so exotic. Like for example, I go to visit him and every time he's in a different apartment. What? It's like musical chairs. And he lives with these people called roommates. So it's like an adult sleepover, I guess. And one time he gave me and my brother, Chef Boyardee for dinner, in a coffee mug because the dishes were dirty.

That's exotic, guys. And this time, he was coming to me. He was taking me to the end-of-season T-Ball Trophy dinner. But I could never tell my friends about my dad. I mean, no matter what I said, they would always end it with, well, yeah, but why doesn't he live with you all the time? And nobody seemed to get it. I mean, every time I met somebody new, a teacher, a neighbor, they'd be like...

"Oh, your dad doesn't live with you?" And they'd make this face like they were disappointed in him and really sad for me. And it wasn't just new people. I knew my mom didn't like him from how she talked to him on the phone. She would slam the phone down really hard, but she wouldn't let go of the phone after that. She would just slam it down.

And one time she said something really weird to me. She was building a playhouse in the backyard from scratch, and she was letting my little brother hold nails while she hammered, so he felt like he was useful. And kind of out of nowhere, she goes, "So, do you guys miss having a dad?" And I didn't get it. I didn't know what to say because what was she talking about? I do have a dad, and he's about to take me to the end-of-season T-ball trophy dinner.

Where I'm gonna get my first trophy ever. And I don't even know what it's gonna look like. I mean, is it gonna be this golden figure, frozen in mid-swing, with like a plaque below it and my name in capital letters? And what is my dad gonna do when the coach calls my name? I mean, how is my dad gonna compare to the other dads? Is my dad gonna like jump out of his seat? Is he gonna cheer the loudest? Is he gonna whistle with two fingers?

And what are the other kids going to think? I mean, are they going to think that my dad is the right kind of dad? And that's when I hear the door open behind me and my mom comes out and she sits down next to me on the front steps. And she says, he's not coming. And I'm like, why? And she says, he had an accident. And I'm like, well, what kind of accident? And she says, he drowned in the Colorado River. He's dead. And I thought...

But how can he be dead? What about my trophy? How can he be dead before I even got to know him? And I'm nine years old, so I know what death is. I mean, I know it's forever. But we didn't go to the funeral. My mom said that we were too little. And so nothing about my everyday life changed. So I thought every time that I had to tell somebody that my dad was dead, maybe that would help me make sense of it.

But, you know, before when people were super disappointed that he didn't live with me, I mean, now when they heard he was dead, their face just fell to the ground and the only thing they were saying over and over to me was, I'm sorry. And the only thing I could think to say was, it's okay, but it wasn't okay at all. And when I was 14, my aunt and my cousin took my brother and I on a road trip to Moab to visit my dad's grave.

And I didn't really know my dad's side of the family, so it seemed really weird to be doing something so intimate with them. And we stayed with my grandma, and she suffered from emphysema, and she always had this oxygen tank trailing behind her. And I remember she didn't really say anything to me when we got to her house, but she hugged me for way too long. And then she took my bags to the guest room, and I turn on the light, and every single wall...

is plastered with pictures of my dad from every stage of his life. And so I start looking at the pictures, trying to find something of what I remember about him, but these were taken way before me and my brother came around, and I don't recognize the person in these pictures. And I lay in bed that night, and the few memories that I do have of my dad are just crushed under the weight of all these eyes on me in the dark.

these eyes of somebody that I don't even understand. And so the next day we get in the car and we drive to the cemetery and my brother opens the door and the first thing I see is my dad's tombstone. I thought I'd have a second, I thought we'd have to walk there, but right through the door is my dad's name in capital letters etched on this stone. And so I get out and I stand directly over it and I try to feel something like what I felt with him when I was a kid.

And there's about 16 million things written on his tombstone. I don't even know how people fit it all on there. But it's like producer, photographer, sound designer, father. And father just sounds alien to me. I never called him that. And so here I am looking for a piece of myself and all I can see is everybody else's story of my dad. And although I tried, all I could feel was that I was in the company of strangers and

standing over my dad's bones. And so after that, I decided, "He's gone. You're never going to know him. Why try? Just move on. That's what grown-ups do." And so I got older, and I told myself, you know, I have one parent, I have a mom, we're really close, that's enough. And I am really close with my mom. We talk like a couple times a week on the phone. And not that long ago, we were talking on the phone, and she was telling me about cleaning out her office. I might have tuned out a little bit.

And then she took a pause, like she was thinking. And right before I was about to say, "Mom, are you there?" She said, "And while I was cleaning, I found something." I said, "Well, what did you find?" And she said, "I found the witness reports from your dad's death." And my mom had filed a wrongful death suit against the whitewater rafting company that my dad was with when he died. And so because of that, she had all this documentation about the accident.

But I was a kid at the time, so obviously I'd never seen any of this stuff. And I knew how he died, but I mean, she had the words of the people who were with him in front of her. And so I said, well, can you read one of them to me? And so I could hear her pulling one out. The paper was rustling over the phone. And she goes, okay, this one is from a guy named Jerome. And he titled it, The Drowning of David Tower at Little Niagara in Cataract Canyon.

And I have the first paragraph memorized. Jerome was like, "I was a passenger on the river trip out of Moab on 5/14/95. I met David Tower that day, who several times sang the beginning of the Gilligan's Island theme." And then he quoted a line from the Gilligan's Island theme in the report, just to really drive that point home, because nobody knows what Gilligan's Island is. And then Jerome goes on to say that, "David was friends with John Williams, the owner of Navtech Expeditions, according to David.

He told me that he asked John if there was anything for him to do, and he was enlisted as the swamper for the support boat. David demonstrated during the trip his fondness for alcohol, tobacco, and food. I told my mom to keep reading, and Jerome talks about how right before what he calls the fateful event, perhaps a callback to Gilligan's Island,

The group scoped out the rapids at the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers, some of the biggest white water in North America. And apparently, during this trip, my dad was supposed to be bailing water, because you're not supposed to have water in your boat. That doesn't help it be a boat. Um...

And my dad wasn't really nailing it, according to Jerome. And so Jerome was considering trading places with my dad and having my dad be in the passenger boat and Jerome would just take this. But he decided against it because it might be disrespectful to the guides. So Jerome stayed in his own boat. And he didn't actually see my dad fall out of the raft when it plunged over this 30-foot rapid called Little Niagara. He just heard another passenger say, "'People in the water!'

And the details were so vivid. It was like I was there. I mean, I could put myself in my dad's position. I could feel the water all around me. I could feel the current holding me down. And as my mom was talking, I thought about the time that I visited my dad in California at one of his apartment complexes that had a pool. And we were paddling around, and I asked him...

Can we play this game where you're the daddy whale, I'm the baby whale, and I ride on your back, and you dive to the bottom of the pool? And so I climbed on his back, and he told me to hold my breath, and he counted to three, and we went under. And it was super sunny, and the light was just slicing up the water, and I kept my eyes open because I knew I wanted to remember everything about this.

And we made it to the bottom of the pool, and my dad tapped the drain, and we turned to go back to the surface. And I wasn't sure if I could hold my breath any longer, but I did it, and we were laughing so hard when we came out. And my mom's still reading, it's the end of the report at this point, and Jerome says that they found my dad in an eddy, and they pulled him into the boat, and Jerome gave him a couple breaths, and water poured from his nose and mouth.

And Jerome said my dad's eyes were open, so he took his hand and he closed them. And then they went downstream to the ranger station. And then my mom wanted to discuss this. She wanted to pick it apart. She had some strong feelings about Jerome. And it was all in the tone of someone who had already processed the loss. And so I said, I have to go. And I hung up the phone. And I sat there in this like silent, weightless satisfaction.

Because somehow, this witness report let me hang out with my dad one more time. I got to hear his voice, I got to hear him singing, I got to see him hanging out. And finally, I didn't have to decide if he was the wrong dad or the right dad. He was just my dad.

Taylor Tower is a teacher and communications specialist who followed her love of French language to Montreal, where she's lived for over 10 years. When I told Taylor the story was moving on to the Moth Radio Hour, she wrote, I told the story two days after my dad's birthday, in the state where he was born and near the river where he died. It felt like destiny, and it was the greatest closure. ♪

You can share these stories or others from the Moth Archive and buy tickets to Moth storytelling nights in your area through our website, themoth.org. Find a show nearby and come out to tell a story. Find us on social media, too. We're on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, at The Moth. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. And that's the story from the Moth.

Your host this hour was Sarah Austin Janess. Sarah also directed the stories in the show with additional coaching from Casey Donahue in the Moth Community Programs.

The rest of the Moss directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, and Meg Bowles. Production support from Emily Couch and Julia Purcell. Moss Stories Are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from The Brothers Four, Rob Stenson, Petit Biscuit, Tin Hat Trio, and the Uri Honing Acoustic Quartet.

You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.