Too much skin in the game for this topless trip on the River
Jim Thaxton, columnist
By Jim Thaxton
Ann and I were outfitter rookies early into our first season and things were running smoothly.
We were offering six-mile trips on South Licking River from above the town of Morgan to our outpost at the confluence of Fork Lick Creek about a half mile north of the Morgan Bridge.
At the same time, we offered a longer 14-mile trip downstream from the outpost to the Pendleton County seat of Falmouth.
We were busy.
Our driver took a church group upriver.
Before he pulled out, I told him that I was a bit concerned about the young girls dressed in denim skirts, white blouses, sparkling white sneakers, and wearing lacy, white bonnets. They weren’t dressed for river paddling.
I offered to send one of my staff along, but the youth minister, a young man accompanied by his wife, assured me they were experienced paddlers.
I asked the driver to brief them well on what to do if they capsized.
As the bus pulled out, I noticed commotion on the beach where we launched the downstream trip. A group of fraternity brothers were running along shore hooting and shouting at a solo paddler heading downstream.
The young men all but refused to listen to our staff giving the safety briefing. They literally leaped into their canoes and started paddling like they were in a race.
The paddler they were chasing was facing away from me, wasn’t wearing a PFD (personal flotation device), had long blond hair covering most of a bare back.
“What was that all about, they having some kind of race?” I asked Jeff, our staff member who just launched them.
“I think that woman that I launched before them took off her top. A couple of those guys saw her and went bonkers,” Jeff said.
“Great,” was all I could come up with in response.
I thought I recognized the woman when she came up to the counter.
She was notorious as the topless paddler on the Little Miami and the Whitewater Rivers.
Apparently, she was trying out a new river.
The day slipped into the normal afternoon lull. Soon the boats we launched upstream would be coming in and our drivers would be heading down to Falmouth to pick up those on the 14-mile trip.
From our office, I could see upstream through the islands almost to Morgan. I saw the church group drifting into the little rapids.
A great blue heron took to the air ahead of the paddlers protesting being interrupted with what I often imagined were the sounds ancient pterodactyls made when they flew.
I felt relieved that the young ladies all seemed to be safe and dry when they floated up to the landing.
Our beach crew was gathering their paddles, jackets and cleaning the canoes as soon as the paddlers got on shore. The girls came up to use the restrooms while their leaders were in serious discussion, obviously upset about something.
The youth minister started heading my way. His gate and body language broadcast he was angry.
“We need to talk,” he yelled. “I’ve got a complaint. I want to borrow your phone and call the police.”
“What’s wrong?” Ann asked calmly from her perch inside the office.
“What’s wrong,” the minister screamed back, “is that all our girls were abused.”
His voice was shaking as badly as his hands.
“Abused?” Ann was shocked by what he said. “Tell me what happened. I’m a nurse, do I need to check their injuries?”
“They’re not injured physically but their poor souls will suffer the rest of their lives,” the minister replied.
“OK, what happened?” I asked, seeing that Ann worked her magic and got him to calm down.
“We were just below the power lines in the calm deep bend in the river when we came upon a group of teenage boys on a rope swing,” the minister explained.
“Did they interfere with your passage? Did they attack your group in any way?”
The minister shook his head no. I felt a bit of relief but wondered what he meant by “abused.”
I didn’t have to ask him.
“Those boys were all butt-naked flying through the air on that swing and dropping into the water right in front of my girls then climbing back up the bank to do it again,” the minister said solemnly. “The poor girls are ruined for life.”
I walked the minister back to the church van now that I was sure that the boys were just skinny dipping in the river as youth in that area have been doing for generations.
I promised to address the situation with the landowner with my fingers crossed behind my back.
The girls were all in the van giggling and making hand gestures like they were measuring the length of something between their thumb and index finger.
Some were using both hands like they were bragging about the size of a fish they’d caught, but they weren’t fishing.
I was confident that the minister had nothing to worry about regarding his flocks’ soul. It was a coming-of-age experience that will be a great story to tell for years to come.
As I was walking back from the lot an old rusty pickup truck was bouncing down our gravel access road kicking up dust and heading towards our office. The truck was going way too fast.
I ran up to the office as the driver hit the brakes and nearly slid into our building.
An unshaven balding middle-aged man with a cigarette stuck to his lower lip leaped from the truck and slammed the door so hard the vehicle rocked back and forth on bad shocks for what seemed to be too long.
“I wanna speak to the owner!”
He managed to keep his cigarette from falling out of his mouth. His eyes were wild. He looked like he wanted to hurt someone.
I glanced at Ann. She simply shrugged.
I turned to approach the intruder considering whether I wanted to confront him for the way he drove in.
I turned back to Ann and motioned for her to call the police just in case. She acted like she didn’t understand what I was trying to sign her and said, “I’m sorry sir, the owners are not here right now. Can I help you?”
That was brilliant. She wasn’t actually lying because the Morgans owned 51% of our partnership.
“Tell me who put that hussy on the river? I was fishin’ wid my wife and sons and dat harlot came un got tangled in our lines. She didn’t bother to cover up. Her boobs were floppin’ around right in front uhme, my wife, en da boys. Dat’s indecent exposure and I wan her arrested.”
“I’m sorry sir, but I think all our people who went downstream this morning are already back and gone. You can see our lot is almost empty,” I lied pointing to our parking lot that was still half full.
“What about dose cars der?” he asked not buying an empty lot.
“Employees, campers, and people still coming in from upstream,” I lied again while pointing to a few tents along the river, two of them belonging to my kids.
“I will tell you what I will do,” Ann offered. “I will go through the sign-up sheets from trips going down stream this morning and send her a note banning her from future rentals here. Will that help?”
Ann has a way of taking the fire out of a volcano and ole man gruff was melting in her soft caring voice.
He started walking back to his truck and I almost said something about his reckless driving but bit my tongue.
“You’ll are nice folks,” he complimented us as he slid behind the wheel.
He turned around and drove out the gate passing our bus full of paddlers coming back from downstream, including the “hussy harlot.”
Ann took Ms. Hussy aside away from the frat boys and worked her magic once again. They were both smiling when they parted company.
“She’ll be back with a bit more discretion. I suggested that she take the upper river trip next time. She loved the river,” Ann said.
“I’m looking forward to seeing her again,” I said.
Before the words were out of my mouth I was rubbing my shin. Ann was also quick on her feet.
Incidents like this would be repeated over the years but the first one always leaves a lasting impression.
Thaxton is a retired Pendleton County High School math teacher. He and his wife, Ann, own Thaxton Canoe Trails in Butler.