KONA MORRIS: There is a massive whirlpool on the other side.

People have died getting caught in this thing.

TIM GILLIS: But I cannot take any chances that he might recognize me.

And of course, I've thought about this.

I'm wearing a disguise.

CAROL STEINBERG: All I wanted was to be invisible, to disappear, to escape.

And I was doing that.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Getting Away With It."

There is something so thrilling about getting right up close to the edge.

Now, that feeling can come from making a daring choice.

It can come from a revelation that shifts our perspective.

It can come from a moment that just allows us to see everything differently.

Tonight's storytellers are sharing their stories about that fine line between what almost was and what actually is.

♪ ♪ MORRIS: My name's Kona Morris.

I'm originally from Northern California, but I've lived all over, from Boston to northern Alaska.

I have been teaching for 20 years, 14 of those years as a professor in Colorado of literature, mythology, and creative writing.

And then I moved to L.A. to pursue my dream of becoming a professional storyteller and comedian.

Are there any particular aspects of storytelling that kind of stand out as your favorites?

When a story shows how an event or a situation changed us, I feel like it's really teaching a lesson.

It's sharing a lesson, very much like mythology.

We're able to share our wisdoms through storytelling.

And now you're teaching storytelling and the craft of storytelling in workshops.

What are some of the biggest lessons that you provide to your students?

I think it's so important for people to know that storytelling is their birthright.

It's not something that only a select few have.

So that's a big part of, of my storytelling workshop.

I'm living in a village of 500 people in northern Alaska.

Before this, I was in Boston.

And then I fell in love with a Native Alaskan man.

And now I'm in a 12 foot by 12 foot ancient log cabin without running water.

We are miles north of the Arctic Circle, off the road system on the banks of the Yukon River.

It is epically beautiful.

It's also so much hard work just to live here; chopping wood, hauling water, constantly preparing for winter.

I'm 21 years old, and I have never had to test my strength like this before.

Secretly, I'm afraid any second it's going to be obvious that I am not strong enough to be here.

I'm worried.

So are my friends and family.

(laughter) I'm due for a visit and I want to show them that I'm okay.

My cousin is getting married, so I plan a trip down to California to see the wedding, I'll get to visit with my best friends, and see my whole family at the wedding.

To get to the airport in Fairbanks, I could take a two-hour bush plane flight.

Or...

I could go with my boyfriend on a 220-mile canoe trip downriver where his brother will meet us at the bridge and drive us to Fairbanks.

I've taken little river floats before.

I figure it'll be relaxing.

(laughter) Day one.

It is not relaxing.

I quickly learn that to navigate an enormous wild river like the Yukon, you have to stay in the current of the main channel.

But, because it's a wild river, the main channel whips back and forth across the land like a snake.

So that means having to paddle for miles and miles and miles across river just to have to paddle back.

Almost immediately, I feel this lump in my stomach and I think maybe this wasn't a great idea.

(laughter) But it's already too late.

The river is way too strong to turn around.

Day two.

It's hot.

Really hot.

In the high 90s.

Yes, in Alaska.

It's summer solstice.

So that means the sun doesn't set at all.

It just paints a circle in the sky.

24 hours of sunlight.

We forgot sunblock.

(laughter) We smear mud all over our faces and shoulders to keep from burning.

Day three.

We haven't seen another human since we left the village.

It's as remote as it is pristine.

Like a private tour through National Geographic, it is majestic.

Day four.

The plan is to arrive to the little village near the bridge so that we can meet his brother the next morning.

But day four comes and goes with no village in sight.

So I asked my boyfriend, "Well, how long did it take you last time?"

He says, "What do you mean, last time?"

(laughter) Day five.

I'm supposed to be on a flight to California tonight.

We are still paddling across the river and back.

There's no GPS, no mile markers, no way to know how far we have come.

We finally see the village, hours after we were supposed to meet his brother.

But there are no cell phones, no way to get a hold of him.

All we can do is hope that he will wait for us.

And even though we're already very late, we still have to stop at the village.

Because if you don't know, it's very rude to pass a village of only 40 people and not stop.

(audience members chuckling) We are so glad we did.

They give us valuable information.

They say when we see the canyon to make sure that we enter on one side, because there is a massive whirlpool on the other side.

(audience chuckles) And it's no joke; an eddy that's a half mile wide.

People have died getting caught in this thing.

We get back on the river.

We see the canyon.

We're so happy to have that information... only we can't remember which side we were supposed to go on.

(laughter) We have no time to argue.

We just do our best to stay in the main channel.

And it seems like we are; we're moving along at a fast clip, the canyon is getting closer and closer, and then we're going in the wrong direction.

We're in the whirlpool.

Every time I think we're gonna break out, we just get whirled right back around.

An hour passes.

We are fighting just to stay on the perimeter.

I am so tired.

I stop for a second and we start spinning out of control.

I yell, "I can't paddle anymore!"

He screams back, "There's no other way!

Paddle!

Paddle!"

Another hour goes by.

We can't keep doing this, but there is no one to save us.

We angle it again, and I close my eyes, and push so hard I feel my muscles tearing.

It works.

We see the bridge, pull over to the shore, collapse to the ground.

My entire body is pulsating.

I look up to see his brother.

He's still there.

He's been waiting for us all day; over 12 hours.

He says he wasn't going anywhere, he was about to set up his tent.

We check the time.

My flight is boarding in three hours.

We are three and a half hours from the airport.

(laughter) He says, "I can do it."

(chuckling): He drives like a bat out of hell, we get there, I run to my gate as the doors are closing, stumble onto the plane, and every single person looks at me.

I have been canoeing... (laughter) And camping for five days straight.

There was no time for a shower.

When I get to California, I still have mud on my face.

(laughter) I had wanted to show my friends and family that I'm okay.

And instead, I have more muscles than I've ever had before in my entire life.

For the entire trip, I have these ridiculously swollen Popeye forearms.

(laughter) After I get back to the village, I fly this time.

(laughter) I have a new respect for how remote it is, for the power of the Yukon river, the importance of writing things down.

And I no longer question my own strength.

Because you can't know if you're strong enough to do something until after you do it.

And after five winters living in northern Alaska, I know I'm strong enough for anything.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) GILLIS: My name is Tim Gillis.

I live in Western Massachusetts, in Northampton, with my wife.

During the day, I work as a marketing and product development person for a great company in that area as well.

Beyond that, however, I also love to write.

I'm an illustrator, I love to tell stories.

So what is it about storytelling that you find rewarding, and like, what brings you back to the stage?

I love storytelling, but I really... maybe the most inspirational part is story building.

What I find is, when I tell a story, a lot of people go, "Your story's really interesting.

It reminds me of my story."

So my story grows, and it becomes our story.

What kind of stories do you feel most drawn to tell, in general?

GILLIS: Well, they're virtually all about somehow connected to my family.

I used to think, "Geez, I wish I climbed Mount Everest."

Or, you know, did this thing, you know, won a medal in the Olympics or something like that.

(chuckling): And all that would have been great.

But I used to think it because, wouldn't that be awesome?

What a story I'd have to tell.

But the idea of telling a story about the day I built a snowman, you know, that ultimately becomes the most important story you can tell.

It's 1978.

I am 17 years old, and I know everything.

(laughter) I know this, at least-- I know that when you steal things, you get them for free.

(laughter) Not that I steal things.

I'm a good kid.

I work hard at school.

I'm good to my mom.

I try to be good to my dad, but he's been drinking so much.

He just lost his job.

He is totally beaten by the system.

It's like we have nothing in common anymore.

I work at a department store called Lorden's.

I'm putting money away for college next year.

From the outside, I am your average 17-year-old.

I blend right in.

But on the inside, I don't feel average.

I don't want to blend in, I want to stand out.

I want to prove that I am smart enough to beat the system that has beaten my dad so badly.

And this is where my bad choices begin.

I know how to write up a fake receipt at Lorden's that would indicate that I have purchased a stereo, and then go into the large inventory area in the back, and get a free stereo.

Which is not my goal.

My goal is not to steal from my company, a company that's been good to me.

A company that is managed by Mr. LaBrie, a wonderful guy, the father of one of my close friends.

I've known this guy since I was a little kid.

Now, my goal is to prove that I'm smart enough to do this.

So my plan is in process.

Right now, I'm holding my fake receipt and I'm giving it to Rick, the large inventory guy in the back.

Rick doesn't know me, of course.

I'm just a part-time high school kid.

But I cannot take any chances that he might recognize me.

And of course, I've thought about this.

I'm wearing a disguise.

(laughter) I'm wearing my brother's reading glasses.

(laughter) See the difference?

(laughter) As I mentioned, not your average 17-year-old.

(laughter) Rick looks at the receipt, he calls it in the back, the wheels on the conveyor belt start rolling.

My plan is working perfectly.

The first box comes off, I take it.

I start walking to my car.

And as I do, I hear Rick behind me.

And he goes, "Something's wrong with this receipt."

I put the box in my car.

I come back, and Rick is staring at me.

"Don't you work here?"

Clearly, my master plan is unraveling.

(audience chuckling) Two minutes later, I'm in a room I've never seen before.

I'm sitting at a table.

There is a man towering over me.

I've seen him many times.

He is the head of security.

Never spoken to him, of course.

He is dressed, as always, like an undertaker.

Usually he's frowning, but now he's smiling, looking at my fake receipt and then looking at me.

"Let me guess, Einstein.

You thought this was gonna work?"

Then the door snaps open, and my understanding of hell and shame increases dramatically.

It's Mr. LaBrie.

He came in just to see that this is true, just to look right at me.

He did not say a word.

As he left, I saw a tear going down his cheek.

Then two police officers come in, and they see this kid at a table, shaking, and they just look at each other and kind of smile.

"Stand up, kid.

Put your hands behind your back."

And I do.

They put the handcuffs on very loose.

One of them says, "Does that feel okay?"

And I turn to him.

"Oh, yes, officer, it's very comfortable.

Thank you."

(laughter) He clicks it three more times so it cuts into my wrist, and he gives me a little tap on the back of the head.

"Come on, you knucklehead."

And he starts walking me out.

Now, as he does, the next shift is punching in.

There are three people I work with standing right there.

They're astounded, staring at me.

One of them actually holds the door for me as I walk towards the police officer's car.

And me, being so well brought up, I turn to him and say, "Thank you."

Then it's fingerprints and mugshots.

I get one phone call.

I call home, there's no answer.

I hang up.

They bring me in the back.

They close the cell door behind me.

And as they do, I look around.

There's no one there, which is good.

I sit down and I begin to cry.

I've never felt so stupid, so ashamed, so alone in my life.

I could feel my father floating above me.

And for some reason, this gave me great comfort.

A couple hours later, a police officer opens up the door.

"Come on, kid.

You're out of here.

"You're booked on grand larceny.

You'll get a court date."

I walk outside.

It's 5:00.

It's pitch dark.

My car is three miles away.

I walk to it.

6:00.

Home by 6:30.

My parents are eating dinner.

I begin to tell my story.

And as I do, my mother's shoulders curl, literally curl under the weight of this story.

I mean, here this woman is trying to hold this ship together, and here I am just breaking it apart.

And I watch as my father listens to me, does not say a word, but I can see the heartbreak in his eyes.

When I finish, he picks up his glass of vodka, and he goes to bed.

A few hours later, in the middle of the night, I hear the clinking of bottles down in the kitchen.

I go down to see my dad.

He stands up and stares at me.

We don't say anything to each other.

So there we are.

We're two thieves in the middle of the night.

My dad with his vodka bottle, stealing the innocence of my childhood.

And me with my stereo stealing the innocence of his child.

And I realize... we have more in common than I knew.

A year later, my dad began making a different choice.

A choice to live sober.

And he made that choice as best he could.

The rest of his life.

One day at a time.

You know, when I was 17, I thought that when you steal something, you get something for free.

But now that I'm a father, a husband, a son, I realize that you take something that is not yours, you never get away with it.

And it is never free.

And the price you pay, the tear down Mr. LaBrie's cheek, the curl of your mother's shoulders, the clinking of vodka bottles in the middle of the night.

The price you pay is immeasurable.

But... when you pay for something, you do get something in return.

And here's what I got.

I got a choice.

A choice to take things that are not mine, or a choice to keep things that are.

To keep my word, to keep my name, to keep my way, and I have made that choice as best I can.

Just like my dad.

One day at a time.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) STEINBERG: My name is Carol Steinberg.

I live in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts.

I'm an attorney, I've been one for 40 years; a trial lawyer.

And I'm also a wheelchair user and a disability activist and a writer, mostly about accessibility issues.

Where could we find some of your work?

A lot of it is in The Boston Globe Magazine.

And I have had something in the Times, in New York Times, about trying a case in a wheelchair.

So I understand that tonight is your first time telling a story on stage.

- Yes.

- What has this process been like for you?

Well, I'm nervous.

(laughs) Um...

I mean, it started as something I was writing, and then I said, "Wait a minute, "that-that really is a really good story.

Maybe people want to hear it."

And, you know, and I feel good about it, about the story, because it's sort of telling people that in life, you can lose something, but you can get it back.

I used to be a really good dancer.

I was no professional, don't get me wrong.

But at any wedding or bar mitzvah or celebration of any sort, where they played great funky music, I was out there in the middle of the dance floor, waving my arms, spinning around, stomping my feet, wiggling my hips all night.

I don't know exactly how I looked, but I think I looked pretty good.

(laughter) Ever since I was a young teen dancing in the living room with my brother to Marvin Gaye or Sam & Dave, dancing made me happy.

Everybody knew it.

Out of everything, it's the thing I have missed the most, that multiple sclerosis, which weakened my legs and put me in this wheelchair, took away from me.

Multiple sclerosis was diagnosed 29 years ago.

After that, for the next nine years, it progressed from a limp, to me using a cane, to me using a walker, and ending up in this wheelchair 20 years ago.

During that progression, I stopped dancing.

It was really self-conscious, felt really awkward, and actually it was dangerous-- I could fall.

So I stopped dancing, and I started dreading those weddings and bar mitzvahs and celebrations where I knew great music would be played.

I went anyway.

But I tried to devise ways to escape the grief that resulted from seeing all these people having a great time out on the dance floor.

So at first I just sat at my table, and smiled, and drummed my fingers on the table to the beat and pretended I was enjoying it like everybody else.

But that really didn't work.

So when I ended up in a wheelchair, ironically, I had freedom of movement.

So, I just devised a great means of escape.

Every time when the music came on, I just rolled away to the ladies room, skulked away to the ladies room and hid in there, and was incredibly sad and often cried.

But I thought I was getting away with it.

All I wanted was to be invisible, to disappear, to escape, and I was doing that.

In November of 2010, I was at my step-nephew's wedding in Texas, and hanging out with his 93-year-old grandmother, Helen.

Great music came on.

I started my thing of rolling off to the ladies room, but I didn't get very far.

I heard a voice-- "Where are you going?"

(laughter) It was Helen.

So let me tell you a little bit about Helen.

Helen was the mother of my brother-in-law and an Auschwitz survivor.

When she was in the camp, she was offered a job by a Nazi guard in the office, where she would escape the torture and death, and she declined.

She got him to instead offer the job to her friend, a fellow prisoner who was much sicker than she was.

A little while later, her friend returned the favor when another office job opened up, and Helen was then herself at death's door and her friend got them to offer the job to her.

So they both survived.

Helen was so brave and courageous and kind and giving all at the same time.

She wouldn't let anybody, not herself or anybody else, give in.

So it was Helen who stopped me dead in my tracks.

She knew exactly what I was doing and she would not hear of it.

She then commanded me, "Get out there and dance."

So I did.

I had to.

I waved my arms, gyrated my upper body, spun around in my wheelchair, and just had the time of my life.

So ever since then, that's what I've been doing at any celebration.

Helen died a month after she gave me the joy of dancing back.

A month after she wouldn't let me get away with hiding.

And I will forever be grateful.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪