It started out well and good.
Three boys and a river. Pant legs rolled up, bare feet wading, then cautiously stepping out onto an over-hanging limb.
Normal stuff.
Then, it happened.
Could have been the late-summer breeze; could have been the way the sunlight landed on the cool, clear water as it rolled around over the smooth rocks below; could have been the lunch they ate; could have been the Milk Duds. I may never know, but something, something made them get their Tarzan on.
And their clothes were left in a heap on the bank.
Adventure called them through the current, across the rocks, and around the bend. Suddenly, on that stretch of secluded river, they were wild men, free men (actually, they're boys, but they'd forgotten), river-wading, limb-swinging men. In the buff, for some; nearly so, for others. This river world caught them, stretched them, taught them.
They left in tighty-whities.
They returned in dirty-looseys.
And it was all well and good.
