On the Banks of the Guadalupe

The water is cold, even though it's approximately 800 million degrees out. (Fahrenheit, though, not Celsius.) Katie, Margie, Margie's friend Lauren, and I are sitting at the edge of the water, splashing ourselves, eew-eew-eewing at the river grasses, and exchanging greetings with passing tubers. Katie, Margie, and Lauren jump in and swim about now and again, but I don't trust my bikini top. There's a Knights of Columbus fundraiser going on at the opposite bank, so a bad band is playing religious music for our enlightenment. A few of the tubers (people in swimsuits and inflatable rafts, not root vegetables) join in with enthusiasm as they float by. "Oh I'm a friend to Gooooooooooooooood!" wails one.

Too far out to splash. Damn.

A guy comes up to us. "Hey, girls!" he says. It's hard to hear him over the dreadful music. "I'm taking a break right now. Do y'all want to play with my (word I couldn't possibly have heard correctly)?"

We look at him and each other. We're all rather taken aback. "Uh, no, thank you?" we venture.

"I'll put it in the water for you, if you like," he says.

He gestures towards his kayak (Kayak! Ohhhhh!) sitting on the bank behind us.

Did you know that Pabst Blue Ribbon proclaims proudly on its cans that it was judged America's best beer in 1893? Perhaps traditionalists are impressed by this, but I can't help wondering if there aren't maybe two or three more breweries in the U.S. than there were in the late nineteenth century. Especially once the beer starts to get warm.

It was a good day but I expect to be a bit tender tomorrow. My bikini top allowed the sun in places where it doesn't normally shine.