We line up to wait our turn, the gnarly horsehide rope dangling for the next 12-year-old.
Standing on the slippery wet rock, the late August sun bakes our bodies.
We swat the mean green horseflies that land on our toes.
Crashing splashes penetrate the still summer day, relief from the heat and humidity.
Like a pendulum, the rope swings back and forth, empty toward the rock, with a body over the water.