The Line Throwers: Aspen of the Lowlands

Comedy Short — One tourist discovers Riverborn is more intense than advertised.

Walter Grady hadn’t relaxed in eleven months. He wobbled on his stool. Tax season was a disaster that felt like it lasted six months too long. He burped. Today was the start of a refresh. His time to recharge. He earned this Riverborn trip.

His wife was overpaying for pilates somewhere near the marina. The twins were zip lining upriver at an adventure course. Walter himself spent the better part of two hours at the hotel bar, The Sterling Basin, enjoying river-forward bourbon cocktails. Walter didn’t know what it meant, but the bartender gave a little shoulder shimmy while shaking the mixer, which he took as chemistry and kept ordering.

But now his stomach was calling. He hopped off the stool and threw an extra twenty onto the bar. She slid the money away and gave him a wink.

“Still got it,” Walter whispered to himself before heading outside.

Next to the bar sat a walk-up kiosk for The Pluck & Tot, the best fried chicken in the county. He ordered an extra-large bucket with steak fries, the perfect accompaniment to slosh downriver.

Walter approached the street’s rental launch. “This is livin’,” he whispered to himself.

The teenage dock attendant looked concerned. That, or his eyes were blinded from the SPF 70 Walter shellacked across his chest, visible through an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. Walter paid extra for a premium tube and a parking space near their hotel. It came with cupholders and a slip-resistant coating. He still managed to almost capsize trying to settle in. He slid the kid a fiver for holding his chicken bucket.

“Whoa—okay. Okay. We’re good,” Walter announced and pushed off. The current caught him almost immediately. At first, the ride was perfect. Riverborn drifted around him in postcard fragments.

Tourists waved from rooftop bars overlooking the water. Paddleboards wandered between tour boats near the ferry crossing. College kids cannonballed from an old stone bridge while shoppers carried boutique bags along Restaurant Row.

Walter raised a chicken thigh toward the sky. “This is why people work hard. The Aspen of the lowlands.” He made a mental note to look into buying a rental condo before Riverborn turned into one of those places people ruin by discovering.

A few bends later, the river widened, and the buildings thinned. The current sharpened up. Walter floated past weathered bait shops, old fishing docks, and a handful of warning signs. Up ahead, the river split.

Most tourists stayed left, where the current slowed near Restaurant Row and drifted lazily beneath the patio district. Eastbank Bend went right. Faster water. Narrower channels. More rocks and brush lines, catering to the more action-oriented seafarer. Walter, however, was busy watching a sunburned woman in a neon bikini shotgun a hard seltzer from a paddleboard. By the time he looked forward again, the current had already claimed him.

Walter squinted at some signs through his sunglasses. “Hmm.”

ENTERING EASTBANK BEND
INCREASING SPEEDS
KEEP LIMBS INSIDE

Then the tube accelerated. The fried chicken basket bounced, sending a fry into the river. “Damn.” Water splashed onto the lid of his lemonade. He wondered if any made it past the lid hole. The current pulled him faster toward a narrow stretch where the river curved around a cluster of low hanging brush. People along the shoreline began to notice.

A waitress carrying cocktails froze mid-step. Someone on the dock stood up. A tourist whispered, “He’s in the wrong spot.”

Walter attempted to paddle with one hand, getting nowhere. He pulled off a Croc to use as a makeshift oar. It did nothing. Now he was spinning. Slowly at first, then faster. The tube clipped a warning buoy and ricocheted sideways toward some underbrush.

That’s when a whistle blew. Every head turned. And standing atop the Eastbank platform was Stonehouse 3’s own Barrett Westbrook. Sunglasses, tank top, and practice rope dangling around his shoulders like a gunslinger holster.

He strutted down the platform steps and onto a rescue skiff while tourists gathered along the railing to watch.

Walter’s tube spun again. “My chicken bucket!” he yelled.

Skip, Barrett’s number two, glided the skiff into place. Barrett twirled the rope once. Twice. A completely unnecessary third time and then launched it. The line whipped through the air in a perfect arc before snapping tight around a handle on Walter’s tube.

The crowd erupted.

Walter’s tube stopped spiraling. Barrett gave the rope a tug and anchored him to the skiff, then coasted to the calm shoreline.

“Easy now,” he called. “Eastbank bites hard after lunch, hombre.”

The dockside crowd applauded as Barrett jumped ashore and offered a hand to Walter.

He looked up in awe. A single wet chicken skin fell off his shorts as he got up. “You saved my life.”

“We throw line,” Barrett said. “Around here… it’s the same thing.”

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See you soon,

—Ricky C.

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