Be it on the east coast or the west, named the Sandy or the Toogoodoo, the river on which I float is Lethe, and I am in the Land of the Lotus Eaters. On a raft or a tube, floating in endless summer, it feels to be always afternoon. Truly there is a timeless quality about floating on water with friends and family, attending to no purpose other than the pursuit of pleasure. I have the privilege to experience, intimately, two floating settings that couldn't be more different from one another. The common denominators are moving water, summery weather, cool libations (ensconced in koozies of course), floatation devices, and good people. This is a little homage to the Toogoodoo and Sandy float.
The Toogoodoo Float
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| Marsh transitioning to plough mud |
The Toogoodoo River flows east-west between my family's docks before it ultimately turns southward to the ocean. This is a tidal river, flowing east when the tide is coming in and west going out. Naturally, the water is briny and it brings with it all manners of salty creatures, from jelly fish to porpoise to blue crab to marsh grass. The banks are marshy at high tide and oyster crusted transitioning to
plough mud at low tide. Sand bars appear as well, although it's a muddy sand, topped with mollusks. In my younger years, I used to wallow in the plough mud, that we could sink waist deep into, and it's probably the same stuff that appears in fancy spas. Now, I tend to pass it by and just enjoy the scant half-mile between four docks that belong to various members of my family.
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| Tying floats to the dock |
Because of the change in tides, the South Carolina float is best undertaken by swimming agains the tide to the destination, and then anticipating the languid float back, letting the tide do all the work. There's also always the option of tying your floatation devices up to the dock and the water becomes the change in scenery rather than the land. That option is not the focus of this post.
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| Facing north, Start at my parents' dock |
I typically begin the float at my parent's dock, with my final destination being my Uncle Johnny and Aunt Loretta's dock not far to the west. I nominate said aunt as Queen of the Float, because she's always keen for being on the water. My most recent float was undertaken with a friend visiting from Raleigh and we met up with aunt, uncle, cousin Renee and her husband Billy. I also got to meet their dog, Red.
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| Original Butler dock on the Toogoodoo |
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| Receding tide reveals mollusk encrusted bars |
With unopened hops in our hand, we hopped in and began our triceps exercise westward, stroking against the tide. You can expect it to be hot and humid in the summer months (at least) in this low country spot, and the water's temperature is not appreciably lower than the air, but it's refreshing all the same. It's about the temperature of tepid bath water. It was hard work, but we made it to stop 1. My aunt and uncle host this dock now, but it was originally built by my grandfather many years ago. No one was home on this day, so I pushed to get there first, climb up and put in the ladder for my friend. This is a great ladder, metal, and supposedly taken from a swimming pool. It's barnacle encrusted and probably considered shabby chic now. This is the longest stretch without a breather, so we decided to refresh ourselves before pushing onward.
We don't have too long to go before we can pause at my Uncle Tommy's dock. He's banging nails, keeping the dock ship-shape. We inquire if he has any refreshments for us, but, alas, he's too busy being productive. He claims that "tomorrow" will be a relaxation day. About that time, a friend in a boat passes by and stops to visit with my uncle. Julie and I pause underneath the dock, hanging on to the pilings and enjoying a moment in the shade. We don't have long to go until we meet up with Aunt Loretta and Renee.
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| Those could be dangerous thunderheads later |
We're in luck! Billy hands Julie and me a Corona, and we tie on to the floats. The tide is still flowing inward, but it's slowing now, and it's almost that perfect time when time and tide seem to stand still. The water turns to glass, reflecting the color and texture of the sky. We're not there just yet.
We exchange news, as it's been some time since I've seen my family. I've been at the beach for a week, and have some tales to tell from that. My cousin is returning to school to be a nurse, and Julie is a year-round elementary school teacher. We all remark on the challenges of school, and the changing nature of students with the advent of technology.
Soon it's time to untie the knots that bind, and Julie and I let go to the leisurely return float. In this time we are on a river of unmindfulness and we seem to experience complete forgetfulness, untouched by sorrow or cares of the world. A crane flies overhead and cicadas call from the live oak trees. Our rafts going with the current, "borne back ceaselessly into the past."
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| Unmoving Tide |
Once we arrive back to our starting place, we tie up and enjoy the stillness of an unmoving tide. The river becomes a swimming pool, and we can almost imagine we lie on a mirror with a barely discernible dividing line of the horizon between water and sky.
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Cannonball!
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| Post Float Celebrations |
At the end of the float, we can play, jumping off the dock and practicing our cannon balls. This is a time to pull up the crab traps, make a Beaufort Boil, enjoy some brewskis and anticipate yet another spectacular sunset. Life is good on the Toogoodoo.
The Sandy Float
Oregon's sunshine is amnesiac. One day of that endless blue, humid-free sky and weeks, nay months, of steely drizzle evaporate. Oregon bestows a month or two of these days each year, and some days the temperature can get into the 90s and 100s. For a southerner, these days are unreal—paradise. Colors are sharper, deeper, Kodachrome, kaleidoscopic. The sun's rays are warm and shadows provide relief. There's only one thing to do on these days: float the Sandy.
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| Jamie shows us how to properly inflate a tube. |
After taking a look at the forecast, we plan for a Sandy float day. Pack the cooler with libations and snacks, brush the cobwebs from the black inner tube, and get your crew and two cars out to Troutdale. First stop is the Chevron, where we get some air in those tires! Make sure you bring your quarters, and get the person with the best technique to fill those babies as efficiently as possible. Stock up on any necessary goodies. Personally, I'm shocked that gas stations don't sell koozies in Oregon, much less ones with offensive quotes like "Helping ugly people have sex since 1862." One point for the south! In addition to the Chic-Fil-A foodcart, this should be my new entrepreneurial venture . . .
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| Sara is the master at securing the tubes. |
Another important role is securing the tubes. We learned the hard way on our first float, when we belatedly realized that inflated tubes take up much more space than they did in the box and must be transported some how. Now we're prepared. Securing the tubes is an art form in and of itself, so make sure there's a person who has logistical sense in charge of that task.
Before we can reach the joy of oblivion, we must be pragmatic for one last task: parking and leaving the return trip vehicle. We leave this car near Lewis and Clark State Park, where we will ultimately exit the river. This is a task I do not relish. I never know what to leave or what to bring. I do know that having dry clothes and towel is instrumental to leave. Other than that, I can't be bothered to worry.
On hot days, many people have the idea to hit the Sandy. Parking is limited. They will give you tickets. I've gotten one, but I wrote a letter and they ultimately returned the money. I'm glad my mom instilled that value in me. The act of parking and leaving this vehicle is an anchor that keeps us from abandoning our lives and simply continuing to float onward toward the Columbia and out into the ocean. This is the act that grounds us in reality; it's what ties us to the mast. The siren's call of the float, the addictive quality of the amber light is strong, but we must get out. We must return.
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| Tubes await |
On that bittersweet note, we beat onward toward Dabney Recreational Area, where we lug in our tubes and gear. It can be a long walk, especially if we want to move further south to have a longer float. Here is where we warm ourselves in the just afternoon sun, right when it has crested the eastern canyon walls, shining on the sandy, eastern side of the banks. The anticipation of timelessness thickens.
It's time to crack open a coldie and salute all the current voyagers as they languidly pass us by. There are all kinds of folks on the Sandy. There are reunions, softball teams, birthday parties, and even baptisms. The draw to the water is universal, I'll warrant.
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| A baptism on the Sandy |
Once we've satiated our basic needs, it's time to secure the beer cooler to its tube and somebody has to volunteer to be on cooler duty. This is an important task, and not one to be undertaken lightly. Precious cargo, precious cargo. For the most part, all tubers are connected, but we don't want to be so attached that we can't separate in the face of treacherous rapids or downed trees. It's a buddy system, really.
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| Beer Tube and water box |
Ahh, that first dip, that easing into the tube. The black rubber is hot, and the Sandy water is glacier cold. It's ice melt after all; the contrast is delightful. We shove off, and we're away.
The start of the Sandy float begins at the base of huge horseshoe, so there's a constant sense of curving through the current, and the sunlight streams through Douglas Fir down to the canyon of light and shadow. We revolve in our tubes lazy-susan-style, and we begin to meander in a "mazy motion."
Our course is leisurely and we stop from time to time at sandbars to readjust or just sit in the sun after a shadow spell. We want to prolong the float. You can make friends or enemies with your fellow travelers. Usually it's friends, but we did get cranky with one crew that left all kinds of trash and cans on the sandbar. We just couldn't understand the seeming blatant discrepancy between enjoying the natural beauty and polluting it. "Give a hoot, don't pollute!"
There are 3 bridges that cross the Sandy over the course of our 3 mile voyage. Because of the curving and lazy current, I often get the impression that we are never reaching them or we're never leaving them. This contributes to the feeling of timelessness, as if we're moving, but not moving.
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| Underneath the E. Historic Columbia HWY Bridge |
There are a few spots that add drama and danger to our float. A few times where there's a boulder dead ahead, and either you clutch to your buddy or relinquish them to fend for themselves. The current picks up, and it's "butts up! and "Wheeeeeee!" It's more fun to give voice to the exhilaration, like on a roller coaster. Then there's the tree that has fallen over a section of the Sandy that has been divided by a sand bar. For the intrepid tuber, she will take the dangerous route. For the practical tuber, she will simply pick her tube up and walk past the danger. Usually we tell the story about somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who drowned on the Chattahoochee; or the story about how it was maybe in
The Oregonian that somebody drowned in this exact spot last year.
All too soon we're nearing Lewis and Clark State Park, and I'm naturally inclined to wonder what it was like for those undaunted explorers. Then I comment to nobody, "We're just like Lewis and Clark." The Sandy float is a bit more adventurous than the Toogoodoo float, but that's really just the nature of the West. It's the frontier, and we're the trail blazers.
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| Towards the end of the float, near the RR bridge |
It's going to be 88 degrees on Sunday. Got your tube?
