water. Instead we tied it to some tree roots that stuck out along the shoreline. A steep trail led up the hillside, to the top of Sawyer’s Rock. Most kids said that the rock was named for a boy who slipped off the top and died. Sara said this was BS.
The rock was shaded by a giant oak tree that grew right behind it. From one of the branches hung a rope. Sara said jumping from the rope into the water was a cinch. “You just have to get a running start so you go out far enough, and let go right before you feel the rope about to turn back. It’s not that high,” she’d coax me, “probably not even as high as the roof of my family’s cabin.” But of course, I hadn’t jumped off that either.
On sunny afternoons there’d be a whole bunch of kids, mostly teenagers, hanging out at the cove. Sara’s brothers would load their boom box up with D batteries and blast the radio from their motor boat. Some kids would go off the rope swing over and over, an endless loop that reminded me of the diagram of the water cycle that we reviewed each year in science class.
A few times I swung from the rope out over the water, but I always tightened my grip as I reached the peak of the arc, coasting back to the safety of the rock. Since I was never brave enough to jump, when it came time to leave I had to slide back down the steep path to the water, grasping bushes and branches to keep