OP: Pickle Barrel Raft of the Columbia

The OP: Pickle Barrel Raft of the Columbia
By Orin Melvin
Before setting off on an adventure, do you think about death? Not just your own, although that is probably important, but about those who have gone and died before, their spirits haunting out of spite for failing, or because the location captured their soul.  As I stood on the dock in the spring breeze, the thought of ghosts slipping among the currents of the Columbia did not enter my mind at all. The OP floated beside us, named after her two captains, Orin and Paul. 

Paul jumped on the back of the raft, an apple pallet that we earned by taking apart other pallets as part of a cleanup job in a single mothers home. We asked only that we could keep the best one. The raft dipped with Paul’s weight, and water edged into the middle where a spray painted O with a P inside of it marked the name of the craft. I climbed on and with smiles and laughs water rose to our ankles. We rocked and jumped, we stood on one side. She took on water, but she didn’t want to sink.

“We need more pickle barrels.”

I worked at a restaurant, and could get an almost never ending supply of the 5 gallon buckets. The lids sealed like coffins, designed to keep liquid in, but in this case they would keep water out and provide the floatation, being nailed onto 2x4s that ran along the sides. We hauled the raft out of the water and carried it onto the grass. After a quick dash to the restaurant, which was only blocks away, we nailed four more pickle barrels to the bottom and put it back in. This time, it carried both our weight with ease.

My sister, Alicia, met us at the dock. We stood ready to launch at Riverfront Park on the western side, and she would pick us up on the eastern shore at Hydro Park, about four miles downstream. The river stretched a third of a mile across.  As we talked about the plans, an onlooker called out, “You shouldn’t do that.” We reassured Alicia, climbed aboard, and pushed out into the waters.  The valley opened wide as we drifted free of land and into the strong ancient current, our bodies riding inches above the swirling depths. We were flightless ducks, and we needed to get to the other side.

Two bridges crossed the river downstream, the supports rising like tombstones. Not wanting to be trapped in the rush of water that surrounded these, we aimed to go directly beneath the middle of the first one, a pedestrian bridge. Using the paddles to steer and pull, we casually brought the OP into the middle of the river. The front pickle barrels, one green, the other yellow, plowed ahead. The pickle barrels seemed to stay watertight. We were not sinking anyways.

The pedestrian bridge loomed above us, a mixture of metal and concrete with nests and streaks of rust and white and dripping water. Echoes of pigeons haunted the bridge as coos and slaps of wings rose above the whooshing of the water around the supports. We looked forward, up, then back, and we cruised safely under the first bridge.

Traffic noise filled the air as we approached the George Seller Bridge, the American flag waving from the top. I wondered if anyone watched us from the cars above, for we were in a different world now, gliding on the currents below, watching those above speeding by, time being nothing but eternity on the back of the OP. We guided the raft towards the shore, the bridges behind us, and all danger seemed passed.

Clouds wisped in the blue sky, and the tops of mission ridge shone white in the distance. The lap-lap-lapping of the water lulled us into a dream, like sailors under a mermaid’s spell. We glided on the current, the eastern shore only two paddle lengths away. Smells of river rot and mud wafted on the cool water breeze. I laid back , my hair blowing across my eyes, while Paul sat on the back, facing upstream.

I looked over, and we had reached the bend, the big bend in the river that shows up on all the maps, the bend that turns the river sharply eastward. The current carrying us, however, didn’t turn. It took us straight to the middle of the wide Columbia. In an instance, the shore was over 100 feet away.

“Paddle.”

I grabbed my paddle and stuck it into the black waters that bellowed on the surface as if countless unseen hands swirled below. I pulled the paddle against the current, once, twice, three times and snap. The paddle broke in half.

With only one paddle left there was no hope of reaching the shore, and we knew the other paddle might break as well. We tried to use the broken paddle blade, but the current was to strong. On the highway running above the river, I could see a sheriff car pull over. We began to float past the dock where my sister waited for us.

“Are you OK?”

“No,” I yelled, “We’re in trouble.”

We stood on the raft and laughed. What else could we do? Past the park where the docks were, large rocks stuck out causing the water to rush past. Before Rock Island Dam, some of the worst rapids on the Columbia flowed here, and I remembered a story about Chinese gold miners who died here after falling in. Of course, the rocks posed a problem, but it was the dam that kept sticking in my mind. I imagined trying to catch on to the wire that stretches across the river before the raft rushed into the turbines. We looked downstream as the river took us towards rocks and turbines.

“Are you Ok.”  It wasn’t my sister this time. It was the sheriff.

“Yeah. Every things fine,” I yelled. We saw him get back in his car and drive away. We watched as my sister followed our progress, stopping when she could. Then a boat came out and pulled alongside of us. The driver didn’t say much, just told us to get in and I held on to the raft as he slowly took us in. The Sherriff came out in his boat, and told us to let go of the raft. It floated down stream.

We arrived at shore and we jumped out. When the sheriff came, he said, “So who do we have here, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn?” He glared at us. “I don’t think there is anything I could fine you for, except not having any common sense. You didn’t even have life jackets on.” He turned to my sister, as if we didn’t exist. The conversation switched to past teachers, classes, school friends. He knew my sister. He wasn’t paying any attention to us at all. We were safe! As he left, he looked back at us and said, “If you want to get your raft, go ahead,” but the OP drifted far on the other side. We turned and headed for home.

I always wondered what became of the OP. Did it rest among bones on the bottom? Maybe, just maybe, unseen hands keep it afloat, and ghosts slip from the currents to laugh on the back of the OP: The pickle barrel raft of the Columbia.