Redneck Florida: Floating the Current River

"This place is like 'Redneck Florida'," said my friend Eric, a part-time wildlife biologist.

He was right. Sunshine, alcohol and water were not in short supply. But here, the scenery looked more like the cheap-seat crowd at a NASCAR race, to include sunburn-red beer bellies, faded two-piece rebel flag and Budweiser bikinis, straw cowboy hats and about 3,000 drunk people. The only thing missing was a beach.

For my "going away to Albuquerque" shindig, my guy friends and I decided to float Current River, a spring-fed Ozark riverway located within the Mark Twain National Forest in Southern Missouri. My expectations included only a sunburn and a couple of laughs, but what I got was an authentic experience.

Upon arriving at Van Buren, Mo., the popularity of a Saturday float became evident. People were everywhere. Dome tents covered the riverside campsites. Hundreds of people sat around in a large gravel parking lot, waiting to hear their name announced and then transported upriver to a drop-off location. Large colorful coolers were being packed from place to place. Nearly everyone was carrying a beer, drinking beer, talking about drinking beer or "yee-hawing" in excitement about drinking beer.

I wondered how hard it would be to "have a good time" here without drinking. Inside my head, I questioned my choice of this over camping on a sandbar in Kentucky Lake. Either way, it was too late for regrets. We paid our $16 fee for a "cadillac tube" and began to get ready for some kind of fun. We just didn't know what kind of fun.

"Hey Jon, I'll put sunscreen on your back if you'll put it on mine," said Derek, my 275-pound actor friend who once played Elvis. Hindsight is 20/20; I agreed too quickly to this deal because his back was at least three-foot wide and covered in the classic-black, curly stuff.

As I squeezed the SPF 50, a group of 40-year-old, chunky, redneck women screamed, "WOOHOO, MAN LOVE!" Everyone around us started laughing, and I knew the jokes had just begun.

Eric snapped a quick picture and so did the chunky mommas sitting a few feet away. "MAN LOVE," they yelled again. I hoped that laughing it off would stop the taunting, so I chuckled and said, "Oh you're just jealous baby!" They tossed a few more jokes my way. Thankfully, their name was call and they loaded their bus.

Soon after, our name was called too. We walked past the chunky mommas' bus and heard their taunts through the sliding windows. I smiled if off again. I did not want these women ruining my day; I had to find a way to stop this. Again, I was glad to be on another bus. Maybe, just maybe, they were going to a different drop-off point.

Our driver looked like a runaway county fair "carny," complete with a pornstar mustache, a Pall Mall dangling from his lips, a dirty-brown tank top, and hairy underarms displayed for all to see. The 1980s-era bus he drove groaned up the steep embankment and then roared to life toward our drop-off site. Our "carny" driver seemed to transform into his alter ego, taking sharp "S" curves at maximum speed. The bus dangerously listed side to side. He demonstrated his knowledge of the road, clinging to the corners and hitting the apex of every turn. He smirked as the passengers threw their arms up, imitating that first drop on a roller coaster ride. Finally, the bus slowed and crept through the hardwood forest and stopped at a picturesque clearing.

After stepping off the "bus of death," a Park Ranger told us the rules, "You are welcome to drink if you are of age, but...," the laundry list began:

• No glass containers allowed.
• No alcohol in containers measuring more than a gallon.
• Carry out all garbage. Pack it in, pack it out.
• Bury all human waste at least 100 feet from the river or springs.
• No Jell-O shots allowed.

I knew we were somewhere different, because what kind of place had to federally outlaw Jell-O shots?

We gathered our tubes and began securing our cooler to the "cooler tube" and made our way toward the water. "There's Man Love," said Chunky Momma No. 1. "Hey, baby," I shot back -- I really wanted to get ahead of them and avoid their taunts all day.

One of them complained loudly that their cooler's lid would not close, and I saw my chance. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a 6-foot stretchy strap and came to the rescue. "Look at you," Chunky Momma No. 1 said. "Thank you," said CM No. 2. Their attitude changed, and my pride swelled; 13 years of a bad overpacking habit had finally paid off.

Floating itself was great fun. At first, we snorkled for sunken treasures, finding only six or seven Mountain Dews on the river's bottom. We dodged overhanging branches and sunken trees, and laughed when someone got banged up by a rock or a branch. That was simple fun.

We sped through the rapids and talked with others floating along. That was relaxing fun.

Then we had rock wars, tossing various-sized river rocks as close as possible to one another. Landon, a former college baseball player and financial planner, was our main target. That was silly fun.

An energetic Eric kept stalking others in our group, pouncing onto and head butting them. That was horseplay fun.

Richie, a world traveling missions director, scaled a rock wall and started a cliff jumping trend. Fifty or so people lined up after he took his first jump. That was crazy fun.

My cousin, a former Marine Corps grunt, kept talking about needing to heed the call of Mother Nature. That was hilarious fun. He kept telling me how he was going to "Launch the Titanic" or "Fire the Missile" while floating downstream. He said he couldn't hold it any longer, and I laughed at his misery. He asked if I would tell anybody if he did it. I lied and said, "No."

"Head for the murky water," he said, but nobody paid attention to his constant cries. A few minutes later I turned around and looked for my cousin, who was not sitting in his tube. He was floating alongside, chicken-winging his cadillac. About four feet upriver I noticed it; floating. Not even five feet away, a 30s-something guy and his girlfriend were chilling out in their tubes, drinking beer. I lost my cool. I couldn't stop laughing, and I began crying, chuckling and snorting.

Eric, Richie, Landon and Derek quizzically looked at me. "What?" Landon asked.

"I saw it," I muttered between snorts. The news spread from Landon to the others like SARS on a bad day. Their lightbulbs came on one at a time, and we began paddling furiously away from my cousin and his homemade flotation device. "I told you not to tell anybody," my cousin said. I just couldn't help it. "You know someone else is going to see that?" I said matter-of-factly. Similar thoughts made us laugh our way down the river for another 30 minutes or so.

Throughout the day, this unique floating lifestyle unfolded before our eyes. Jet-propelled john boats cruised up and down this natural, "lazy river." One small craft captain jammed rap tunes and bobbed his head and hand in unison with the crowd. On the front decks of these john boats, women of all shapes and sizes sunbathed, acting like Hugh Hefner's The Girls Next Door, but in a redneck way. The letters M-O-V-E were painted on the aluminum underside of one boat.

Beautiful homes with broad windows and wooden decks overlooked the floating carnival below. Some people grilled out and tailgated along small access roads. Children played in the water, screaming for mommy or daddy to watch them splash or skip rocks, while others jumped from small bluffs and swam ashore for another go.

As we floated along the reality of the day settled in. I would be leaving my friends soon, and this was our last get together. Richie and Eric paddled over and we all propped our feet up on the smaller cooler tube, which was tied off to me. All three of us had on Keen sandals, and I thought it looked like a commercial. We discussed my new living and working arrangements, and when they would come visit my wife and I out in Albuquerque.

"Someone died there last year jumping off near that tree," Richie said, pointing to a 60-foot rock face.

The river slowed and we got tired and hungry. My cousin and I debated on eating at Lambert's with the others or camping overnight.

"Do you have any beer," one lady asked. "I told you I was going to mooch beer if we ran out," she told her boyfriend. "Do you have a cigarette?" she asked a man paddling a canoe.

Our landing site was around another bend and our 6.5-hour float was coming to a end. Derek's tube got caught on a rock, and he was stuck. When I floated past I tried to pull him adrift, but I managed to knock him off his tube. Derek swam to my tube and clung on for the last 10 minutes.

At the landing site, an incredibly drunk woman stumbled over, told me her name and tried to hand me her tube. "Not him, go tell the guy who works here," her friend said. "I'm really drunk," she explained. I was glad she cleared that up. I was glad to have had fun without a drop to drink.

Dinner was big fun too. I had a great time seeing our bribes rejected - Eric, Richie and Landon all tried to entice the young hostess to move our name up the wait list. I also loved losing a punching contest to Richie, listening to the waitress call Eric names, watching Landon catch and eat a dozen thrown rolls, singing Alabama songs and eating good food.

We had a great day together. It was simple fun, relaxing fun, silly fun, horseplay fun, crazy fun, hilarious fun and big fun. All in all, we had the best kind of fun -- authentic fun.