#Mom stuck in quicksand tv#

Once moving pictures were invented, filmmakers looked for dramatic situations to record, and images of quicksand struggles became popular.

But what is quicksand and can you really be swallowed alive by it?

#Mom stuck in quicksand tv#

Synopsis: From Oscar-winning films like Lawrence of Arabia to TV episodes of Lassie and Tarzan, the hazard of quicksand fascinated viewers of the mid-20th century so much that 3% of films of that time included someone sinking inexorably into the earth. Once free, you can slowly crawl or swim to the edge and roll onto solid ground. Then gradually recline to float on the surface. Wiggle your legs in tiny movements, which will slowly let water in to loosen the compacted sand. The key to getting out is to remain calm. The more you struggle, the more sand will liquefy and sink, and the more trapped you’ll become. Because humans are buoyant, we typically won’t sink below the waist or mid-chest.īut once the sand grains are out of liquid suspension, they too will sink, and compact around your legs, trapping you. Quicksand looks solid, and if you were to place something or even step lightly upon it, it may support you.īut step firmly and the quicksand will liquefy, and you’ll sink. In those places, look out for sand that’s spongy or rippled in appearance, and check suspicious areas with a stick. Quicksand can form on beaches, tidal flats, riverbanks or near springs-anywhere the ground is saturated with water. Normal wet sand is about 25 percent water quicksand is more than 70 percent. It starts by knowing where quicksand forms and what it looks like. What can you do to avoid getting trapped-and to escape if you do? Getting caught in quicksand can be fatal, with victims dying mostly from dehydration, hypothermia or heat exhaustion. Credit: Ralf Schulze from Koblenz, Germany Normally, getting stuck in mud would not seem terrifying, but the night before our family had watched an episode of The Incredible Hulk when he got stuck in quicksand.This sign says “Take care! Quicksand” on the beach of Texel Island in the Netherlands. The harder she pulled one leg, the deeper the other would sink. Her rubber, knee-high boots quickly became enveloped into an inescapable vacuum. The tall grass and riparian buffer concealed the mud in which we would soon find ourselves to be trapped. We noticed the ground below us becoming softer as we approached the stream. Along the way, we discovered a hidden danger that would keep us from ever fishing that day, and ultimately, the rest of trout season. Soon after my father was out of sight, my mother and I embarked on a short journey to our designated fishing spot. Any mortal man would have sustained a concussion from such an impact, but not my father. Just when I thought the cord could take no more, the net would snap back at the speed of sound, striking my father in the back of the head. Each time the net became entangled in a sticker bush, the elastic cord stretched to the verge of its breaking point. Like Lewis and Clark, my father forged ahead with great determination. Not recognizing this as a sign of what was to come, I waited for the elastic cord to fail but it never did.

Watching the net become entangled in every sticker bush he passed, I studied the thin elastic cord linking the net to his tattered K-Mart fishing vest. I focused in on my father’s fishing net as he disappeared into the brush.

If there was a trout fishing Hall of Fame, my father’s vest would definitely be on display. Before she and I even put on our boots, my father was off. My mother and I were left to fish the section of stream closest to the car. He owned that hole, and he was not about to let some local worm slinger beat him to it. Shortly after arriving at our local put and take stream, my father hastily put on his gear and hurried downstream to get to his favorite hole. One of my earliest fishing memories was the day my father put off saving my mother’s life because he was sure there was a brown trout at the end of the run he was fishing. If not for her patience and foresight, I may never have become an angler. Picking her spots carefully and methodically working a section of water, she would often out fish the men who begrudgingly looked on from the next hole down.īut unlike my father, who would let me cry on the bank and fend for myself, my mother took the time to untangle my line or walk me back to the car to get dry clothes after I inevitably fell in. With a more patient approach than my father, she didn’t move around the stream as much (or chum). She, too, was quite proficient at slinging corn for stocked trout. In my earliest trout fishing trips, I always seemed to end up with my mother. If not for my mother, I may never have survived my earliest days on the trout stream.