A bright summer morning on any river, U.S.A. A crowd of canoers, led by one or two self-appointed "leaders", prepare for the annual downstream float. It's 9:30 a.m. and mass confusion abounds.
"Weren't we supposed to shuttle at 9?" someone asks. What! You say the shuttle's gone? I didn't hear any announcement. How'm I gonna get my car to Reedsville landing?"
"No sweat friend," comes the ready answer. "Someone'll bring you back!"
Between the mix of uncertainty and lack of communication, there is misunderstanding of the day's events.
"They say we'll be done by four."
"Better be! Gotta be home by five. We shoulda left an hour ago.
Where is Robertson (the leader) anyway?"
Finally, the shuttle is complete and the pack moves to the river's edge. Left behind are soft drink cans, candy wrappers, styrofoam cups and occasionally, an honestly useful item like a life vest or canoe paddle.
Once on the river, the fun begins. The kids have their ghetto blasters, whose notes and rhythm they unselfishly share, even with those who are not their friends. And some of the adults have beer. Lots of beer. Invariably, you can get one free for the asking. In the scene are whining kids and barking dogs. But these over-indulged passengers have no say in what's going on.
Fifteen minutes into the trip, someone lights up a cigarette, while another opens a beer. A half mile downstream, both can and butt are innocently tossed into the gathering flow.
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