Understanding a Life - Memories of influences and events that shaped.

A small boy sits in a chair with table, odd it seems, for one so young, small, delicate, yet such a large chair quite out of proportion. He can barely read, understand simple concepts, even to talk takes quite a listener, though he shows much in his innocent face with expressions he isn't even aware he is making, and giving so much of himself so easily away.
His parents chose this school, small, unique, not too expensive, for they aren't rich. More like a group of 'die hard' hippies living in the fantasy of knowing better, and doing things right and better by their offsping. Perhaps 30 pupils, ranging from 3 to maybe 11 or 12 years in age. The childrens parents made up the teachers, and this faculty of trust among this group was their forming; hippies, how things could have been different. He'll never know.
As he sits, and stalks the teacher with his eyes making little sense of the jumble of hieroglyphs on the chalkboard, he feels an urge, relief beckons. Wants to raise his hand and ask "Cen I go toylet?", but something is holding him back. Was the teacher, perhaps cruel and angry that he was afraid to speak, or perhaps a fellow classmate the 'trouble-maker' had already asked jokingly and been scorned for it. Such simple concepts as sarcasm, irony and perhaps ego were totally foreign to him. Still he sits, holding back, the pain in his abdomen increasing, searing and burning, commanding release. Or maybe at this early age, shame had found a place deep in his heart, holding him silent in the company of others, fearing their words, taunts or laughs. He starts to fidget in his seat, his eyes are hurting from his blank stare as he concentrates on his insides, begging them "please please, save me this embarassment, just a little longer, please... Give me the control to stop this from happening, just this once, let me, please..." The boy, if 3 and half years, barely notices as the trickle finally wiggles its way down his pant leg, his feet far from the ground gently release the liquid letting it splash gently to the floor, forming a small puddle under his desk, slowly growing, screaming, waving its hands, wanting to be noticed.
It happened so fast, the laughter, the pointing, the taunts, the snears, he turns left and right looking for a face that might offer him refuge or even neutrality or ambiguity. But the roar has caught the entire class, and none want to be left out of mocking the "Little pant wetter!".
Dismayed he flees the room at high speed, working his infant legs as hard as he can to get as far away as possible, somewhere he can never be seen again, somewhere he can be alone with his shame.
Despite being so young, the memory of running for the first time in the open yields some sanctuary from the shame there. At the park, not an ordinary park, a small native zoo, but he only remembers the Koalas in the trees. Furry grey and white cuddly's, seemed so gentle, slow and peaceful, not a care, or worry, no regrets and no shame; simple and content. It was here among these wise looking marsupials, wise for their grey beards he recalls. It was here his mother let go of his hand and let him run, and run, and run. Later he would enquire to a large scar on his lip and discover his first learning to stand at barely six months resulted in a sudden urge to skip the stage of walking and go straight to running. Reckless and free he charged around the house for months to come. Finally taking a corner blind at around 11 months old, resulting in a nasty fall down a full flight of stairs, guess it must've looked like a football. No stitches for him though, this house he spent his first 18 months of life in was located on the west side of Pittwater basin. A house with only water access, the nearest medical attention was a radio call to the marine patrol, or failing that a 15 minute hard row in a fibreglass dingy with wooden oars. Yes, he grew up in a place he would hear his parents only ever refer to as, 'The Shack', still doesn't really know what it means, but sounds cosy, and was; ah yes, was. They sold it before he reached two, for 80 000 in 1980, saw it in a paper a few months back, 1.2 Million or something, land value alone. Still, there are plenty of regrets, and money was never one.
He was a mischeavous little kid, once he threw a new radio into the bay, just sitting in the dingy, maybe 6 months old, picked it up (mustn't have appreciated the music I suppose) and tossed it into the water, never to be seen again. Pittwater is reasonably deep, maybe 50 or 100 metres I'm not sure, someone caught a shark or two there once, oh yeah it was like crossing a sea, maybe 1 to 3 kms wide. And so, one evening, as the sun set behind West Head, the last reddish pink sparkles giving in to the lights of the houses, his father set out from where I'm not sure, but coming home with the two boys, our boy maybe 9 months and his elder brother perhaps 2. The father rowed, facing the stern as one does when rowing, occasionally turning his head to look over his shoulder at where they were going. The elder brother often sat in the bow on the single seat, and today was no exception. The small boy, sitting alone on the stern seat, losing patience with the long journey wanted to stand up to see out farther into the darkening distance of twilight. At this moment, his father drew the oars forward in the air and plunged them deep into the water ready to thrust the boat forth once more in this travelling symphony, simultaneous he flipped his head over his shoulder to get a fix on the destination far ahead. The infant stood. His knees were about level with the top of the boat, the part that made up the back of the stern seat, he must have had a slight smirk on his face, even then he knew he wasn't allowed to stand up in the boat. The father squinting into the fading distance at the ridge for his tree marker got a fix and thrust the oars rearward sending the boat jerkingly forward. Turning his head rearward again, breathing in and drawing the oars into the air, panic struck.
The rear seat passenger was gone.
Pulses of information striking the brain and awakening deep primal instincts, commanded pulses of relfex to his muscles. Diving aft, he looked over the stern side. Somewhere in the blackness he sensed a life in grave danger. Plunging his upper body deep into the water with just his legs in the boat he feverishly flailed his arms in the water desperate for contact. Hours passed in seconds, an eternity he spent there. And then, as if from nowhere a small ankle fell into his palm, grasping it firmly he wrenched the blue baby from the murky freezing abyss. Still breathing, through the tears and gasps, his father held him close for warmth and thanked the kindness of the world. The boy hadn't realised how close he had come to meeting with his destiny that night.