Jack was eleven years old in late March of 1961 and the spring flood waters were beginning to rise along with the temperatures. His brothers and he would clamber onto the railroad bridge, walk the narrow planks and look down at the rushing waters below. He, along with every child along the river, loved this time of year. It was exciting as he and his brothers made a game of climbing onto the girders below the bridge, find small niches to hang onto and ride them out as a train rumbled over the tracks above while the violent waters flowed below. They crushed together and hung on with all their might as the bridge shook for several minutes until the train finally passed completely by, bringing a halt to the earthquake like scenario.
It was their local version of riding a roller coaster-without the safeguards. One slip, a loosened grip on the girder or another person, and they would be gone-probably found several miles downstream as blue and dead as any corpse. But no one ever slipped. No one ever let go of another. They rode it out, enjoying every moment of the delicious terror engendered by their own actions. It was glorious, foolish, against the wishes of their parents, and also unknown by anyone but themselves.
Jack, Gabe, and Kellan loved it more than anyone else it seemed, for the southern edition kids thought they were crazy river rats for doing it-and maybe they were.
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