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Out of Captivity : Surviving 1,967 Days in the Colombian Jungle

Out of Captivity : Surviving 1,967 Days in the Colombian Jungle

Out of Captivity : Surviving 1,967 Days in the Colombian Jungle

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450 OUT OF CAPTIVITYbefore <strong>the</strong> accident. In Tom and <strong>in</strong> Keith, I have bro<strong>the</strong>rs with whom Ihave forged a bond that goes deeper than blood and bone to spirit andsoul. We cont<strong>in</strong>ue to talk frequently, and every day I remember anewhow our friendship made survival possible.I’m a different person now. Inevitably, we all change, but those fiveplusyears worked on me <strong>in</strong> some very good ways. I have a newfoundappreciation <strong>of</strong> and patience for just about everyth<strong>in</strong>g I do. The o<strong>the</strong>rday, I had to go to <strong>the</strong> hospital for an MRI. (I still have trouble with myknee and my back.) I was told to arrive at 9:30 A.M. for a ten-o’clockappo<strong>in</strong>tment. I sat <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> wait<strong>in</strong>g room and watched as time passed.An hour went by without my name be<strong>in</strong>g called. Several o<strong>the</strong>r patientsgroused about <strong>the</strong>ir time be<strong>in</strong>g wasted. I smiled at <strong>the</strong> thought that anytime was a waste. At twelve-thirty, my name was f<strong>in</strong>ally called.The technician was an attractive Hispanic woman who seemed noolder than eighteen. As she led me down <strong>the</strong> hallway to <strong>the</strong> exam room,she kept apologiz<strong>in</strong>g for <strong>the</strong> wait.“No me importa. N<strong>in</strong>guna necesidad de disculparse.” I told her that Ididn’t care and that <strong>the</strong>re was no need to apologize.“Your Spanish is very good, as is your accent. Are you South American?”“No,” I said, laugh<strong>in</strong>g, “but I’ve spent some time <strong>the</strong>re.”She began expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> procedure. When she was done, she asked,“Will it bo<strong>the</strong>r you to have to lie very still? Some people f<strong>in</strong>d be<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong><strong>the</strong> mach<strong>in</strong>e very conf<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g.”I shook my head and said, “No. I’ll be okay.”When I got back home after <strong>the</strong> test, I climbed on my bike. I had noparticular place to go, and no particular dest<strong>in</strong>ation <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d. Before,when I had my sport bike, my rides were tests <strong>of</strong> courage and speed,hurtl<strong>in</strong>g down <strong>in</strong>terstates as fast as I could on those arrow straight strips<strong>of</strong> Florida asphalt. All that’s long gone now; my adrenal<strong>in</strong>e rushes havebeen satisfied. That day, I rode along State Route 66 enjoy<strong>in</strong>g a crispand clear New England fall day. The colors <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> maple trees were vi-

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