Some weekend during spring term of my sophomore year at college, a group of us decided to go rafting down the Columbia. An old, old friend of mine, Scott, organized the trip, with promises that he’d take care of everything. All I was to do was grab three or four of my college buddies, and provide a second car for setting out.
Scott’s purportedly well-nigh professional preparations consisted of: A raft, four mismatched paddles, two fifths of whiskey and six waterlogged life preservers that looked to be circa 1953 or so.