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Friday, July 4--

I pulled into the city boat landing at 1:45 to wait for Caleb to show up so we could drive up to the regular landing and put in the boat. The Honda's heat gauge was way hot, so I looked in the coolant reservoir under the hood and refilled its emptiness with a leaky gallon jug of distilled water the boss's wife gave me from work. Then I saw distilled water leaking onto the ground and knew that something fundamental was wrong.

Cabe pulled up. I backed the boat and launched at Hodag, rather than upriver as we had hoped.

I filled the radiator this morning. No trouble getting to work and back. Filled the radiator again to go downtown, assuming the cooling system had emptied over the last few days and that a top-off would get it by for at least one more day.

Saw my mechanic at work this afternoon. I told him I had a coolant leak and begged to bring it in Monday morning. He said "sure."

I hope the damn leak is a cracked hose or a pinhole and easily repaired so EZ and I can go out on the water by early afternoon Monday.

Caleb and I had a marvelous time on the river yesterday. My God what a skillful matching of souls has been knotted between us.

I parked the car after dumping the boat into the lake and we headed into the madness of the big-boat lake. Silent swells upset us and a hard wind watered our eyes and EZ bucked splay-legged as jetskis zinged past and everybody slamming their Fiberglas hard-ons zoomed circles with youngsters bouncing high above inflatable surf rings, fifteen feet into the air.

No one out there was having a good time, but only we knew it.

I slow idled us to ease around the point and out of the confusion. Upheaval returned. It had been laying low and waiting in ambush and leapt out at us as we rounded the third point into the bay by the waterside tavern I hate because they overcharged to rescue me last summer when I needed gas. We tolerated big waves for half-an-hour before entering the quieter main river. Above the secret shortcut I appealed to Caleb's good nature and asked him to drive.

Through SSC we took on a wilding of mosquitoes. Caleb wanted to play Frisbee at Sandy Flats. I warned him about what we could expect to see there based on last year's shenanigans. We glimpsed the throng and knew that the place wasn't safe. So, around we turned and landed at Grand Sandbanks twenty minutes later.

"What a different world this is," Caleb noted. No one around except serene silence and us.

We swam and played Frisbee across the river. EZ swam against the current without destination in mind.

I suggested we try and reach Wooden Bridge. Cabe hesitated based on wrong information. He thought the hour-and-a-half it took to get there was open-throttled and a hell of a lot farther way than reality.

"Let's do it," he finally agreed, so we did. Past the familiar safe landmarks then into the shallow wide stretch, we proceeded past A-frame cottage. The cloud canopy moved east and sun heated us welcomely. The forecast was for a 60-percent chance of strong thunderstorms through the day. Both of us have been yearning for electrical pyrotechnics and loud thunder; we've had none this summer. Though predicted, it dissipates or skirts south every time as though there's some secret scheme depriving this region of rain. As I write, the local forecast shows no possibility of rain through Friday.

The river topography changes markedly upstream, from sharp s-shaped curves and narrow--30-yards across, to 100-yards wide with long gentle arcs. Caleb stood on the bow scouting for rocks and, eager for excitement, almost fell in once or twice when he spotted big fish. Then he fell in when he sighted a whole crowd of big fish. From the river he held up his hands 2-feet apart to display their approximate size. He yelled for a fishing rod so I tossed over the vibrator setup and he used it like a lance, stabbing it into the river and pirouetting tight twirls.

He had no success by doing that.

He changed tactic, got in the boat, flipped open his budget twelfth-birthday tackle box, and withdrew a Beetle Spin, with soft yellow body, clipped it in place and cast it into the water.

"Bottom feeders," I said. "Suckers or redhorse. They don't bite anything but garbage."

"Do people eat them? How do I catch 'em?"

"Only smoked. With a spear. Not a lure."

We got to Wooden Bridge by 3:00.

"Busy road," Caleb noted.

"The road is not busy, but there's a lot of traffic on it."

We swatted mosquitoes while climbing the rocks to the top. EZ had taken the easy way up and was already there panting. SUVs and other tourist limousines whooshed past shouting muffled disgust through dark windows about local bridge yokels slowing down their aspirations to get elsewhere sooner.

We dinked around for fifteen minutes. Cabe told me to, "wade through that deep spot right there and feel the sinky silt." I didn't want to feel crawfish claws clamped on my toes so walked around.

I picked out a great souvenir. EZ had snapped at it upon arriving, down deep in the clear water. A great chunk of root with intricate tight growth designs. Brought it home on the gas tank and have set it out on my veranda to dry.

We entered uncharted waters up past the bridge where rocks were not subtle or demure about their presence. Three females floated past in inner tubes, squealing, splashing. The one with horn-rimmed glasses spit out overflow beer foam from her cup and the others shouted suggestive allures at EZ who wanted to go kiss them each one at a time.

We let them go.

Fished briefly for a lurking deep lunker.

Downstream we met up with the girl trio again and, just past them downstream I stated that we should've created a big wake to send each of them tossing for insolently not answering my asking if they needed a tow and how far were they going?

The river re-entered a slow spacious pace, so we drifted. Got out Black Box and spent an hour or two him beating up on me, moving past wild gold woods hosting exotic summer birds singing unfamiliar pretty songs. We talked about what a strange pace it was to have settled into, so different from the norm hurrying us toward new stimulations waiting.

We got to Grand Sandbanks and had another swim to scrub off sweat and Deep Woods Off.

Downriver slowly, watching my watch. Fireworks usually start about quarter-to-ten. Into the wide lake which begins three miles or so above town. Boats with fishing partners cut off our course a few times, until Caleb drove and I got into the bow seat and my eyes were assaulted by bugs seeking sex.

I motioned my son to slow down the motor. Then fetched up the dry box from the stern (it's only dry these days if we have no rain) and got out the goggles I'd purchased for this night on Thursday at work. "Professional Impact Goggle" said the plastic packaging. Impacts are what he and I need professional protection against when the sun goes down and two guys go fast around water.

He liked the whole deal, being a teenager attracted to the bizarre and--reversing his cap to the God-Damned way teenagers must do--put on the goggles immediately then scanned the horizon for other boaters to enjoy his oddball equipage.

By 9:30 we'd endured a whole lot of big boat wakes and entered the scene where everybody was waiting and bobbing. Even hordes on shore, the thousands that sit or lay where alcohol has collapsed them, waited for something to happen.

I, in the distraction of having a car leaking coolant and being diverted by putting the boat in the water at the Apperson landing, failed to put the other life jacket into the boat so we would be legal if stopped by the Sheriff's water patrol. (Don't ever get stopped by water-borne authorities without proper life preservation. They get priggish and don't want to hear whether or not everybody on board can swim.)

We docked at the big town pier near where I'd parked the car so he could get the life jacket. Men, and equally foolish females, sat on pickup tailgates far outside of the parking lot lines. (The fourth of July is not a time for law enforcement agents to respond to civilian complaints.) Caleb disappeared into the throng. EZ and I waited. Though she didn't help me hold the boat against the dock as she's been taught to, but kept grinning at passers-by, failing to take our responsibility seriously.

My son threaded his path back and he backed us out, leaving the strange life with its people back on shore.

The tripod up front kept tipping though EZ wasn't the cause.

Caleb and I argued when the show would start. But he'd been north the night before and had witnessed another town's show.

Our Jaycees have been ejected from the local country club after more than twenty years. "No more fireworks set off from our grounds," the local television news channel reported in May.

"Shoot the fucking things off somewhere else," their spokesman said before our NewsChannel Twelve editor could turn off the tape.

A girl screamed somewhere closer than we liked, an inebriated scream shrieked over and over. I said, "stop screaming or I'll put something in your mouth to stop it."

Caleb heard what I said and drained Mountain Dew out of his nose for a few minutes.

The fireworks started ninety-degrees east of tradition. Pontoons all around us fired up their engines and repositioned their view.

He drove in reverse, trying to keep the camera aimed at the show. Then he put it in forward and we passed by musical pontoons broadcasting patriotic tunes courtesy B-93 FM: This Land is Your Land ... Ballad of the Green Berets by Barry Sadler, and many marches composed by patriotic men who knew what it was like to get shot defending my freedom. The choreography of the music, I heard the next day, was supposed to have synchronized with the aerial salvo show.