The Raft.

The raft swung out of the haystack and into a long strech of flat water. Sitting in the back, he lit a Cohiba cigarillo and began telling stories once again.

“People used to drink and drive more when I was younger and one of the only times I was scared for my life was when I was hitchhiking to a party in Moncton from my university. A fella from Quebec picked me up and began driving us through the Wentworth valley. Now, it had been snowing and we were in this old Mercury with a big block V8. He pulled out this lemon hart gin and was sharing it with us. Being students, we were excited to get some free liquor in us before the party. However when my buddy spilled the gin, the french fella got real mean. He started swearing at us and saying how he hated English people spilling booze in his car. He sped up and was going 120 miles an hour in a blizzard and I thought bye god, this is how I die. We made it to an old shell, long torn down now and he pulled over to take a piss. We ran out of the car and got the hell out of there, convinced that he was going to kill us. When I look back on it, we should’ve kicked his ass.”

“Sounds like running away was the right call” I said.

“Maybe your right, I am happy that we made it out of that car.” He said.

The raft continued down the Kispiox river. Many more stories would be told that trip. A trip that might not have happened if one of those many stories had gone a different way. But time had passed the way it had passed and therefore, they were able to sit on the raft drifting lazily down the flat water bathing in sun and searching for tanks of fish in which to fill the cooler. 

It was a good trip.