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.
My friends and I went river paddling one summer - I trod on a fish. It was dead. Then we saw another dead fish. We ran out of that river and never touched it again.
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