Cruising muddy dirt roads. Singing, laughing. Only slightly phased as the Subaru’s rear end threatened a farmers weathered telephone pole. Narrow miss.
Dub was six hours late. I assumed our float was off, but I was wrong. We were doing this. There wasn’t much daylight left and we didn’t know where we were going, but we weren’t changing our minds. We kept driving. Singing. Laughing. Swerving.
“Let’s drop in here. It’s doable. Not too steep.” We moved hastily, with childish excitement. We were naive. Stars came and went as we made our way downstream, still searching for an island suitable for camp. The blackness to our left was a good mass of dry, hefty sand, Dub suspected. We paddled over. His headlamp cofirmed. We were safe. He prepped dinner while I foraged driftwood under moonlight. We were set.