Chicken dance: no, not the wedding dance. A odd clapping chirping dance that only Bruce can do. That other people--especially Kevin--asked for.
Yard sale: what you shout when you notice assorted items--hats, coolers, beers, coozies--floating downstream from a (presumably) overturned raft upstream.
Hat: what you really really need because otherwise your face burns.
Neon fire: what you gather 'round after the Saturday Night Dance Party (yes, this is hardcore camping here, people). Our group took their neon necklaces from the SNDP (they were handed out like this was an ecstasy-free rave) and tossed them in the middle of the ring of camping chairs (the kind with drink holders and footrests--hardcore, here!). So there it was, this pile of pink and yellow and green neon stringy plasticy cheap things, glowing at our feet. Suddenly Andrew got up, and without a word re-arranged them. Like a modern-day picasso, these unrelated glowing lines suddenly took shape. Of boobies.
The Silent Artist: what everybody called Andrew after that.
360: what Andrew made our raft do, what I really didn't like.
Poop: what you REALLY don't want to do for about 2 days. Because the options are limited and stanky.
Flotilla: linking up with any number of other rafts. That way you can take the widdle baby wapids without paddling--as long as you're okay with having no control, you'll make it fine. (Most of the time--Bruce only washed overboard once, but that was a freak occurrence).
Peace: what you really feel as you're drifting downstream on a sunny day, a cold beer in your hand, friends up and downstream ready to pull over with you, have some lunch, and keep on floating.
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