Over the past several weeks, a high intensity drama has been playing itself out in an obscure cave in Thailand.
Unless you have been living on another planet, (and in spite of the overwhelming 24 hour a day cable news network coverage of Donald Trump and the Mueller Investigation), you are familiar with the story.
A former Buddhist monk, turned soccer coach, was pursuing a different kind of physical activity that day when he led his twelve member ‘football’ team into the depths of a cave on what was, apparently, intended to be a hike of several hours.
And in spite of a warning sign at the mouth of the cavern, Ekapol Chantawong made an inestimably poor decision, and proceeded into the darkness leading a host of naïve, unsuspecting boys in his wake. Ultimately, the 25 year old Ekapol became disoriented, lost his way, and was unable to retrace his steps out of the cavern. And, as a result, he and his boys sat down to wait; in the event of an unlikely rescue.
Of course, friends and relatives, and, ultimately, the entire world quickly took notice of the soccer team’s absence, and a large and costly rescue effort was mounted; finally discovering the boys a couple of miles inside the mountain in which the cave is located.
What greeted the rescuers eight days later was a smiling, yet emaciated group of young men who had been sustained by a few snacks they thought to bring with them, and their thirst quenched by water which dripped from stalactites hanging from the ceiling.
Pt. 2
Although Ekapol and I are of entirely different ethnicities, reside in two far flung regions of the world, embrace religions contrary to the other, are familiar with completely different cultures, and almost half a century separates our respective ages, we have something somewhat striking in common.
I once managed to lose a group of boys; (and I along with them).
Almost a quarter century before the little monk, turned soccer coach, made his entrance into the world, I co-founded a local outpost in Virginia; which was affiliated with a national church-related boys group referred to as, “Royal Rangers.”
And on such and such a day, a couple of other Ranger leaders and I loaded our eager boys into several vehicles, and set a course for a nearby mountain. (I have long since forgotten how many young fellas we transported on this particular field trip, but it was roughly the number for which Ekapol was responsible).
Having arrived at the mountain, we found our way out of the automobiles, and began our trek up the mountain. I suppose we had walked half a mile up the circuitous pathway, before we sat down for a sandwich, and rose again to continue our climb.
Within minutes, heavy cumulus clouds began to gather, lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and rain began to fall. And if this was not enough, the heretofore 5 mph wind gusted close to 30 mph.
As you might imagine, dear readers, my anxiety level “shot off the chart,” and it occurred to me that I was suddenly “way outta my league.” And since I was the Senior Commander of Royal Ranger Outpost 68, Dale City, Virginia, I felt especially responsible for the welfare of our 12 and 13 year old boys.
The rain “fell in buckets” now, our clothing became thoroughly saturated with water, and drained into our shoes, lightning struck a nearby tree, and the wind slapped us about in invisible waves.
While we had climbed a literal mountain, I found myself in a figurative valley.
Now one of my Lieutenant Commanders spoke,
“Bill, you really messed up this time! Did you check the weather report before we left the church this morning? If any of these boys get lost or hurt or come down with pneumonia, I’ll make sure the pastor and deacons know how unprepared you were, and how you put these boys lives in jeopardy.”
President Truman had a little plaque on his desk which bore the inscription,
“The Buck Stops Here.”
I somewhat involuntarily adopted the same slogan that day.
Pt. 3
The Thai soccer team had languished in the bowels of the earth for a full eight days before they were discovered, and several more days elapsed before an attempt could be made to bring them out.
In the meantime, the cavern had steadily been filling with water, and the monsoon rains began in earnest. And in spite of efforts to pump the accumulating H2O out of the cavern, the muddy liquid continued to rise inside the narrow rock walls.
Dozens of experienced cave divers lost no time in making the five hour walk and swim from the entranceway to the rocky shelf, where the boys waited; allowing them access to needed food, electricity and oxygen. Sadly, one Thai Navy diver has just died in this process; having run out of the third of these previous commodities, as he swam back from whence he came.
Note my previous sentence is written in present tense language; as the process continues. A couple of days ago, divers put their long-awaited plan into effect, and brought four boys through a two mile labyrinth of narrow-walled passages and submerged chambers; having equipped them with diving masks and fins, and tethered them to their own bodies. It is estimated that during the tenuous journey, the men and boys were forced to swim the length of eleven football fields; contending with darkness, and razor sharp rocks. (Interestingly enough, prior to their failed outing, none of the boys knew how to swim).
Having arrived at the mouth of the cave, the four boys were packed into waiting ambulances, and rushed to the hospital. Four more young members of the unfortunate soccer team were successfully brought to the surface today. As I write these words, four additional members of the team, and Mr. Chantawong remain in the cave, and they should be brought to the surface in the next 24 hours.
The efforts of literally hundreds of men and women of various nationalities and professions have clothed theory with substance; the rescue of these fine young Thai boys of the “Wild Boars” soccer team.
Pt. 4
If news reports are any measure of the truth, Ekapol C., the humble little soccer coach, is being celebrated as a hero among family and friends of team members. He has encouraged them. He has kept them together. He has kept them alive. No doubt, he would have sacrificed his very life for them.
And far be it from me to disagree with the general consensus, but I think with my ancient and momentary experience (which I previously described) I have somewhat of an inside understanding of this eerily familiar matter.
You may recall, dear readers, that in regard to my own personal experience, which has as its setting a mountain in Virginia, I left you hanging.
After the storm subsided a bit, and my precious boys, my leaders, and I were left chilled to the bone, without so much as a coat or sweater between us, I realized how utterly lost we were. Somehow before, during, or after the stratospheric dynamics which I have recounted, we found ourselves off the beaten trail; (and never having come within sight of the summit).
Like the sifting of sand, too much time has dropped to the bottom of my proverbial hour glass to remember how we regained our footpath, and found our way to the base of that mountain in Virginia. But I can tell you, had my lack of preparation, dearth of wisdom, or abject indecisiveness endangered one of those boys with whom their parents entrusted me, no one would have accused me of being a hero.
Ekapol may have encouraged his team, kept his team together, and kept his team alive, but this is the least which should be expected of him; given his dreadfully poor decision to take his young charges on a “field trip from hell,” to have ignored the posted signs at the mouth of the cave, and to have led them deep into the dark abyss.
Ekapol’s ill-thought decision to lead his teammates into the cave that day had financial, fatal, and future ramifications.
Untold millions of dollars were raised and spent to rescue the boys’ soccer team from the abyss. Whereas, one man led twelve boys on a poorly conceived and precarious journey, one man sacrificed his life to insure their survival. And it goes without saying that the yet unknown, still untold emotional costs among these dear young men may be great.
Afterward
All this being said, I can empathize with dear Ekapol Chantawong.
Given my earlier revelation of having come too close to jeopardizing the lives of a similar number of young boys under similar circumstances, I am the last to throw stones.
Almost half a century has come and gone since my own experience of which I have so laboriously described. And in spite of its potential consequences, I like to think of that episode as a “blip on the chart” in terms of the good God has allowed me to do.
As I so often share with those whom our Lord sets in my pathway, I have counseled thousands, taught hundreds, and mentored dozens. And I like to think that the event which connects me so vitally with the former monk, turned soccer coach, served as a nucleus for all that came afterwards.
A grace received. A lesson learned.
And in spite of everything which has recently befallen him, and as long as it takes his countrymen, (and the world) to begin to forget, (for many will, ultimately, blame him for his decision to journey into the cave) I profoundly believe that a man named ‘Ekapol’ will find a way to forgive himself, will go right on making a difference in the lives of a boys’ soccer team, and that when advancing age endows his hair with grey, and his mind with rich and random remembrances, he will have few regrets.
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 84. Copyright pending
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