We were in Washington state towards the end of July, beginning of August this past summer. My aunt and uncles beautiful log cabin was the second to last leg of our journey around the country. We’d previously been in Mount Vernon, Virginia and Fairbanks and Craig Alaska. Needless to say, the weather in eastern Washington was certainly a change from Alaska’s climate; I was used to 40 degrees at night, maybe 60 in the daytime. Washington was no lower than the 80’s all day. We were hot.

*whisper whisper* “A river you say? A sandy river? Uncle, why didn’t you tell us about this place before hand?”

Now, I had been to this particular river before (very close to the same spot). And it was around there that my brother chopped off a large chunk of my knee cap, giving me 12 stitches. You would think I would be worried to go back to the river; that my luck with it wasn’t exactly the greatest. Well, you thought wrong. I jumped right in.

The first day was phenomenal! No-one was to be seen or heard; the little sandy beach was clear and all ours. We were having a complete blast (way too much fun than a human should have). We had a inter-tube that rubbed black crap all over our chests when we carried them (that never came off, by the way). We had a current that would carry us down river, then, weirdly, back up. We saw a deer. I dove to the bottom trying to catch fish; it was an all around fun (very ‘not’ “oh God, we’re catching on fire because it’s so hot”) time.

So the next day rolls around. It’s just as hot as the previous day. We’re losing just as much body fluid as we take in every minute. The nice, calm river sounded like something that needed to be done. Needed.

*sigh* This time, luck wasn’t on our side.

We got there to find that obviously people aren’t dumb; the smell of burning skin and the look of crispy bacon on their arms made them realized that it was hot outside, and were as well searching for a place to find some relief. And what better place than our river.

We walked onto the beach and found it our river infected with a good four or five families, soaking up our rays and our water and our sand. Well, we’re nice people, so we didn’t pull out the .45 and shoot wildly into the air; we simply sat down on a empty spot on the beach and tried to enjoy ourselves.

One group obviously had beer, because one man in particular was yelling, flirting, slurring his speech; a typical drunk. He had spilt something on the sand and had attracted hornets all over the beach. We were pretty far away from the spot, so no worries there.

Me and my family swam out to the middle of the river to soak up rays on a rather large rock that sat there. It was our favorite place; the water would just rush over the top of the rock, and you’d get little fish swimming all around you. We had a scuba mask that we would use to swim deep down around the rock and try and catch fish.

I jumped in the innertube and started down river, expecting it to take me back up like it had been doing. Well, it decided it wasn’t going to today, so I ended up having to fight against the current to beach. And where did I end up? Right on the drunks part of the beach.

‘Well, crap’ I thought as I climbed out of the water, avoiding the stupid hornets that were wafing over the spilt beer or wine or whatever it was. The guys looked at me like I was crazy; invading their “spot”, how dare I! Well, whatever, I started my walk past them without looking on them.

Wait… whoa… ow… ow ow ow OW OW OH CRAP OWW!!!!

I had stepped right on a hornet, and the bloody thing was stuck to the bottom of my foot.

I hopped around for a few seconds before scraping my foot against the sand, trying to get the freaking thing off, to no avail, all the while, the bug was still filling me with poison.

Finally, after what seemed like a couple of years working on a pig manure farm, I smashed the hornet to dust, and my foot throbbed like hell. I couldn’t even walk on it. I hobbled away from the spot and plumped down on the sand, trying to scratch away the pain; it didn’t work.

My family had saw what happened, but I don’t think they realized how BAD it hurt, because they quickly lost interest. They gave me some sort of rub or whatever, but it didn’t help. So I had to watch as they enjoyed the water and I roasted on the beach.

The drunk, who, I guess, felt bad for me, walked up and said, still slurred “Hey man, I got somethin’ that’ll fix ya up!”.

Ok, now follow me closely, because you might not believe me when you first read about it. The man reaches into his mouth, grabs a wad of Copenhagen, proceeds to put the crap on my foot and tells me to hold it there…

…lol, WAT!?

I was stunned that he would do something so vile, so worthless. Nonetheless, I humored him and grabbed the stuff, though it did NOTHING for the pain. As soon as he walked away, I threw the ball of goo to the ground and went and washed my hands in the river.

… look, as much as he was trying to help me, seriously dude?! Blech!!

Anyways, I spend the rest of the time being grossed out and sitting on the beach. I hobbled up to the car, my mom asked “Does it really hurt so bad you can’t walk on it?”

“YES, mom, it really does…”

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