On my way from work I stopped to pick up my brother from where he works and we went swimming out at Town Lake below the damn near Red Bud Isle. Red Bud Isle is a park where they allow dogs to run off the leash so there were all types of dogs and dog people there. The water looked swift and chilly. The only people swimming were tan scruffy types with week old beards and blurry tattoos clutching Lone Star tall boys as their cut-offs drizzled onto the rocks and roots of the tree-lined banks. Since I was unprepared to go swimming we stopped at Target and bought a pair of cheap black trunks. I found a hidden spot in the bushes and changed out of my work clothes and we ran off to find the rope swing.
River rope swings have mysterious pasts. Who first climbed up the tree and tied the rope? Who nailed the boards to the tree so that others could come and take the climb? As all rope swings are uniformly ill-shapen and dangerous, this one was no exception. Our beer-drinking predecessors at the swing intoned the particular unique method for jumping off this swing, “Throw the rope over the hump then leap out from the left. Take up the slack before you jump or it will slap you in the nuts when you let go.”
The swing was made from two lengths of thick rope knotted together, which Scott swung to me as he waded out after his jump. I swung it over the hump and started up the trunk, the wet boards twisting on their rusty nails as I worked my way up. Once I reached the bend in the tree I collected the slack of rope in my hands and got myself in place to jump. I pushed off with my bare feet and flew over the river. When I got out as far as I knew it would go I let go and hit the water below. The cold water took my breath away.
Alive in the world I let the green river carry me along with it.