Like little leaves atop the current, we floated down the river on Saturday. It took the entire afternoon. It was hot as eff. Sunscreen was applied liberally but in general was not enough. Many of us turned a peculiar lobster red.
I forged the river face down on an inflatable inner tube, flipping from time to time in the interest of sun-burn management. For the most part, things were peaceful and the water was glassy smooth. Once or twice, though, our floating friend barge encountered "rapids," which, although they were class like minus 2 or whatever, still wrought pandemonium. There was no point in fighting it. When you're on the water with nothing but your two hands for oars—well, then you go where the river takes you. In such situations, you do what you can to keep your head above water and your sun spectacles in check, and in the end, you forgive your beer for being, now, part river water. It's all okay. It's summer!
I don't have the energy to float the river all the time—the giant float is more of a once-in-a-summer deal for me. It involves shuttling cars and and inflatable-orientated air pumps and dry bags for your keys and the like. But that one time I do motivate, it's always worth it—a deeply lazy, deeply summer moment that I immediately stick in my cap of fine, pure moments from the year.