In August the river was opaque, like milky coffee, from the summer rain that swelled its waters with muddy runoff. North of town, the water lapped against the boat launch, warm and inviting. The kids began arriving in pickups and Jeeps, backing down the launch just to the water’s edge to unload tubes and kayaks. By eleven in the morning there were nearly twenty people there, all local kids.

Will plugged an air compressor into his car lighter and began to blow up floats and inner tubes. They filled coolers with ice and beer, and stocked the dry bags with snacks and cameras. The girls tumbled into their tubes first, and the boys pushed them toward the center of the river, then hopped into their own tubes and followed them out. Once they were all on the water they lashed some of the tubes and the cooler rafts together with rope.

This far north of town the river was wide and flat, and the banks were crowded with trees. Up ahead they could see the lacy metal structure of the pedestrian bridge that crossed the river at the state park, with a massive American flag hanging from the center, rippling softly in the breeze. In an hour or so they would come to a point where the river would be dotted with bands of other tubers in matching yellow floats from a company that catered to day-trippers from Philadelphia and New York, but for now they had the water to themselves.

Will rummaged through the cooler and pulled out cans of beer, tossing one through the air to his brother. He cracked one for himself and lay back in his tube, his eyes closed. He let his hand trail in the warm water. He finished the beer in two long gulps, and slowly began to relax. He looked forward to these tubing trips every year. Out on the water, whatever was happening onshore didn’t seem to matter. The river determined the pace, and all he could do was let it carry him along.