River Paddling

River paddling is what we used to call it. On searing summer days we’d find our way to the marina and set up blankets and kites and eat ice cream and share laughs and stories, or sit in silence and be washed in the sweet relief of the soothing breeze.

One time we were at a friend’s house and decided to take a shortcut, and stumbled upon a little stream where the water had taken a detour from the great river that ran through our town. There we dipped our feet dubiously into the refreshing water. It only came to our knees and as our toes reached the bottom they were met with unstable ground and rough jagged stones, but we didn’t care, or think about it.

I learnt to skim rocks there one day, and another day we brought a lilo and took turns in sailing a few feet downstream. Eventually we realised we’d have to walk home soaked through and the fun became more refined.

On the very last day of summer we’d all arranged to meet there at midday when the sun was high in the sky and we’d have plenty of time to dry off and relax afterwards. We held our breaths and all jumped in and off we went, down the stream till it was deep and reedy, and we could no longer touch the bottom.

Fishing rods were held with angry hands as we thrashed by, disturbing the peace and chasing their prizes away, but they didn’t say anything and so we carried on.

The sides eventually became high and slippery with mud and we struggled to drag ourselves out and onto the banks just using the roots from the trees that towered above. Then we traipsed it back and lay on a little island of grass while the water ran off us and back into the thirsty ground.

River paddling was the greatest part of my summer. I’ve moved away now, and that town isn’t mine any longer, but every time I think back and remember, I know that I once called it home.