Second, there was the large sand-bar opposite the upper part of town. In low water this bar was enormous, comprising several acres. Its foot shelved rapidly, so that you could dive from the firm brink into six feet of beautiful, still water. The bar reached up-river, it seemed forever; and over the dry, fine sand, or splattering madly, with the water only to your ankles (keeping, of course, a sharp lookout for step-offs) and your flat soles sending the sparkling drops far and wide, you could run around until tired. The sand-bar was the best resort of the three.
In very low water, it was possible to wade from it to the mainland on the Beaufort side; and to swim to the other mainland was no trick at all, if you knew the shortest route.
Third, there was the sandy beach across the river. This was the place most popular; for although the water here was not so sweet and fresh as that of the rafts and bar, the beach was convenient, safe, and available throughout the season.
The rafts were not safe for the weak swimmer, because of the current; at a normal stage of water the bar was a mere uncertain patch; but the beach was always good-natured and ready.
At present it was to the beach that Ned and his chums went. Off the rafts the water was decidedly frigid; the sand-bar was just beginning to show its face, covered with a thin coating of mud left by the receding freshet—and how cold this water in the middle of the river was! The beach now held open house for Beauforters, young and old.
The boys went over every afternoon in Ned and Hal’s scull-boat and in skiffs. The entertainment afforded by the beach was endless. A quarter of a mile above, a point of land jutted out, thus throwing the current from the shore. In some places the beach sloped gently; in others it pitched abruptly into the water. You could wade or you could dive, or you could bravely launch yourself, paddle a short distance, and if you had aimed exactly right you could then let yourself down upon a shoal, with the water up to your neck, and the undertow tugging at your feet. Or you could swim straight out until into the current, and turning upon your back could deliciously float along as far as you deemed prudent, with the sky over your face, and the shore passing in review in the corner of an eye, and the saucy waves slapping at your nose.
Between times, here was the soft, hot sand in which to roll and bask.
Not to be omitted from the program were those times when a rafter, or a stern-wheeler packet, ploughed up stream (the up-boats raised the biggest swells), spreading in-shore long rollers and breakers whose oncoming was rapturously awaited by the bevy of bathers.
The beach resort was so well rummaged and understood, that rarely did a tragedy occur at it, and had Ned and his crowd stayed strictly within bounds they would not have met with this experience which is about to be related.
On an afternoon toward the last of June they were swimming at the beach; two boat-loads of them—Ned and Hal and Bob, Frank Dalby, Sam Dalrymple, Orrie Lukes, Tom Pearce, Phil Ruthers, Les Porter, and others. They had been skylarking to their hearts’ content; playing tag, leap-frogging into the water, or diving slily and catching an unsuspecting friend around the ankles. The scull-boat had been capsized, and much sport was found in coming up under it, where was air-space for breathing, and hooting for the benefit of the outsiders. The packet Pittsburg, which had the reputation of making the highest waves of any of the steamers save the rafter Reindeer, even had surged by, leaving behind her swells and joy.