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Passionate Milltown Brat
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By:
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sjmoore
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Mood:
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full of life
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Date:
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08/05/2008 22:07:05
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Music:
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None
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"Wow man, look what somebody threw in the dump!" I was thinking they must have been some kind of moron, because that wooden rowboat was almost in perfect shape. It didn't take long to convince my three friends that the two foot long gash in the floor board wasn't anything major. There was the "Tar Pit" down in back of the mill where we were always sinking our army jeeps and our sisters' Barbie dolls. "That hot tar will make a perfect patch, we'll just pack some dry hay in the crack and use sticks to smear that black crap over everything until the crack is sealed up!" The "Tar Pit" was just one of the many play time wonderlands that life in a New England Milltown provided for our little band of hoodlums. The pit was in fact a nasty environmental crime that a fishnet business was piping out through the back wall of the mill, and our little band of hoodlums grew and expanded to include close to twenty young brats. On this particular day my three friends and I carried that old boat at least a half a mile through town beaming proudly toward all the disdainful gazes from the "Old Fogies" on their doorsteps. After patching the hole and giving the tar at least fifteen minutes in the cold March air to cure, we carried our newly repaired dingy another half mile down to the Pawtuxet River for its maiden voyage. The water was mostly thawed but near the edge where it wasn't moving there was a fringe of ice we shuffled across to get the boat to the rapids. In the instant that I pushed off from the big rock and leaped into our riverboat I realized what a humongous mistake we had made. The patch held for at least 30 seconds before the ice water was squirting and gushing all over our shoes and legs. As the boat smashed sideways into the rocks approximately 20 yards downstream from where we started I recognized the panic on all of my friends faces as a sure sign that our fun-filled cruise would end as did the Titanic’s'. The boat spun around the big rock and was hurtling through the rapids half full with ice water and four wild eyed crazy kids. As the tallest boy in our crew formed the foolish idea, I realized he wasn't hearing my heartfelt "NOOOO!” standing on the back seat of the boat he reached up and latched hold on an overhanging branch. Well he didn't let go of that branch and the boat kept hurtling down the river until his feet pushed the rear end of the boat under the whitewater and capsized the skiff dumping all four of us into the ice cold drink. What happened next has always been one big blur. I remember thrashing and splashing and scrambling through the rapids, and climbing over my friend who had been too slow when he stopped and clung for dear life to a rock still fifteen feet from shore. I actually remember putting my foot on his shoulder (or head) so I could push off for the final sprint to dry ground. When all four of us had reached the shoreline, we watched shivering, as the crappy blue boat rolled in the rapids and sank out of sight. By the time I reached my doorstep in the dim light of that cold afternoon, my clothes were freezing stiff. Truly an awesome excursion, but the big reward was sleeping in my warm safe bed that night and dreaming of our next big adventure.
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