The River Playground
Before swimming pools, sea dooes, and wave runners, and commercial beach establishments became the expected, there was simply the Gulf, river and boats. We summer cousins woke each day; with new expectations for what explorations and experiences the river would share with us that day.
Perhaps it was a flashback into the Tom Sawyer days, or perhaps a recollection of the days of swimming holes that pushed Granddaddy towards building the river's tallest rope swing. With each step of the ladder, a summer cousin would climb to a heavenly platform, grasp the multi knotted marine rope, glance out at the deep cool river, suck in a deep breath of courage and commitment, then push, heave, swing, release. Each swing become a performance, striving to top the swing before. From the shore line each contestant watched and waited, plotting their private strategy.
For those five or six seconds, precious stalled moments in time, one became totally air borne and afloat by that thick, hot summer air; the swirling blue above, then the deep, green, cool, reflecting river surface below. By the next tick of a second one became totally submerged below the welcoming water, the sense of complete silence in this secret world immediately became the exherberating force that charged the swimmers sore muscles as they powerfully pulled to break the river's surface and fling their arms upward with a command of a successful and winning performance.
The river itself, outlining the curves of the opening banks, became the nature's pool of backstrokes, summersaults, and bubbles, rafts and deep diving of exploration. Only an occasional thought of what might cohabit this playground, with eyes and gills, fins and teeth, leathered shell or skin, all looking on would make a summer cousin consider calling the swimming event short. Most summer cousins were fearless, and accepted the reality of gars and gators, turtles, snakes, and fish as just part of the population also enjoying and living in this summer playground.
Boats were plentiful for river's passage. Looking back, the drivers, the captain for the moment, were just as daring on the wheel and throttle as they were at the rope swing's highest step. Quick turns, sharp cures, angry low wakes, and high speeds were all apart of the play. We learned to ski while dodging alligator circles. We gathered water lilies, craving the summer time fragrance while nudging the boat's bow in and our of the slips of mud and sand. With a gingerly balance beyond arm's length, one would reach then gently snap them from the sultry, marshy shallows.
Crab nets and gar traps were baited and set. The crab nets were checked regularly during early daylight hours. The wispy threads of the rope with a massive hook at rope's end were strategically placed in the boat house's depths, a fish head dangling on the rusted hook. Hope of fooling and capturing the river's most despised predator grew more with each passing hour of the dark night. Few prehistoric like gars were caught; but the manning of the watch hours were worth the wait. Each splash of water's break sent chills down the spines of the summer cousins. In the reality of the catch, just who would be the one to pull and haul this massive and muscular catch ashore, risking the meeting of the tender flesh and the hundreds of tiny, pin like, needle sharp teeth.
As summer cousins, the river adventures took on a pirate's true nature of being the explorer and the conqueror. Often therefore, the wooden fishing boat with the noisy and oil stained outboard motor would offer itself a vessel for those expeditions of conquering. No turtle, while lazily sunning itself on the river's limbs or stumps, were never awake enough or quick enough to escape the long wooden handled net.
All day; everyday during summer's season of adventure, the river offered a playground of the familiar yet the ever changing with each day's dawn, each tide shift and each moon phase.
 |
1966 John and Jimmy |