The Empty Chair, The Oak, and The Raccoon: How to Swim Left in an Oak Savanna

May 1, 2026

The Empty Chair, The Oak, and The Raccoon: How to Swim Left in an Oak Savanna

Published by Rochester Sun Times News on May 1, 2026, at 6:44 AM CDT. By Lisa Loucks-Christenson, Publisher.

April 30th marked what would have been my dad's 84th birthday. I sat in my wildlife sanctuary, trying to figure out a gift that would match the weight of his memory. I decided to name a 500-year-old Red Oak after him. It could be as old as Methuselah, but 500 years would suffice for now—that was my time to honor him.

As I stood there, I felt like I was going to have a visitor. I needed to stay, even as darkness surrounded me.

My mind drifted to the photo I used for my story, Tide Lenders. It was the last story I ever wrote for him. I gave it to him to read, and he smiled, saying, "I liked it, except where I died."

He died the next day.

That photo, which I used for the story, was one my dad shot of our entire family walking toward the ocean—all but him. No self-timers, no tricks. Just a real-time moment, one pressed shutter, old school. He was the photographer, capturing us as we moved forward, while he remained the observer. I've always looked at that photo from two perspectives: first, that Dad was the empty chair, still watching over us; and second, that it captured the day a rip current almost divided us forever.

I was a teenager then, a Minnesota tourist on a Florida beach who didn't understand red-flag warnings. The third wave came, knocking me into the calm—a deceptive, glassy patch of water that suddenly pulled me away. My family was feet away, but I was taken.

I was exhausted, my body filled with salt water, and I had stopped fighting. I turned around to see how far I was from the pier—at least a hundred feet. There sat an old man in white, whiskers and a salty face, expressionless, staring at me like he was trying to understand the scene. He looked like an old version of my dad.

Seconds later, as I was being pulled under, sinking, I heard it. Two words that changed the rip and my life: "Swim left. Swim left."

I didn't know if it was a stranger, a trick of the mind, or divine intervention. But I swam left. That command broke the rip. It took me 45 minutes to touch ground, but I made it.

Decades later, in 2000, when I was 35, the phone rang. It was Officer Cornwell from the Rochester Police Department. His voice was urgent, cutting through the silence: "Lisa, it's your dad. You need to come quick. It doesn't look good."

I arrived to a scene of hysteria. People were crying, the air thick with noise I blocked out to stay focused. For some reason, the police and paramedics arriving soon let me be with him. They kept everyone else back.

I held my dad's bleeding head on my knees. His blood ran over my white jeans, like a dogwood in bloom—the same flowers we'd seen on a recent trip to Arkansas. He was trying to speak, but I just kept stroking his face. I wanted to say a thousand things, but that's all that would come out: "Go to God. Go to God." I knew he was leaving us.

We lost him about two hours after Officer Cornwell's call. His calm voice in that initial moment of chaos had become my "swim left" moment again, giving me the strength to stay present for his final hours.

That same strength—the ability to let go with love—was what I needed years later when my German Shepherd, Dale, was dying. I had to tell him, "It's okay, you can go." He collapsed in my arms. History repeated itself: the pain of loss, the necessity of letting go, and the enduring power of the stories we carry.

Back in the sanctuary, as the light faded, I sensed movement. I called out, but he kept running, driven by an internal time clock. Like a white rabbit in a waistcoat, Shrimp ran to the base of the oak, straight up the trunk. I filmed him as he reunited with his sister, Saint.

I found myself wondering: Was the old man on the pier my dad? Could that expressionless man in white have been him, reappearing in my memory as a visitor this very night to let me know he was still here?

Now, the water has changed.

We are facing new currents: legal battles, deep divides, and the very real possibility of the end of this sanctuary—the home of Shrimp and his family. The ocean is gone, replaced by an oak savanna.

How do I "swim left" in an oak savanna?

Do I fight the current of the law? Do I swim parallel to the division? Or do I trust that the same voice that saved me in the water is guiding me now, through the trees?

The story of that Florida survival—the wave, the voice, and the swim left—is a pivotal chapter in my upcoming sequel, Derecho Shrimp 2: Double Lightning Bolts. It is a true wildlife memoir, weaving the line between the human struggle for survival, the grief of loss, the grace of strangers like Officer Cornwell, and the mysterious, resilient lives of the creatures we share this planet with.

But the story doesn't end there. The sequel is about what happens next. It's about finding the "left" path when the water runs dry.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Your oak stands tall. Teach me how to swim on land.

Memoir #WildlifeDocumentary #Storytelling #Resilience #Grief #Faith #Nature #Filmmaking #DerechoShrimp #WritingCommunity #TrueStory #FloridaRipCurrent #MinnesotaTourist #Legacy #OfficerCornwell #RochesterPoliceDepartment #RochesterMN #Dogwood #Arkansas #SaveTheSanctuary #SwimLeft

Lisa Loucks-Christenson is the publisher and founder of Rochester Sun Times News, where she brings more than 40 years of experience as a multimedia journalist, author, photographer, and illustrator. A Rochester, Minnesota native, she has built a career spanning local journalism, storytelling, publishing, and creative media, with credits across books, columns, comics, photography, and national publications. Her work combines community reporting with award-winning visual and written storytelling, and she continues to expand Rochester Sun Times News as an independent local news source.

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