I Probably Should Have Died Then

Ever had one of those experiences that, while enjoyable at the time, makes you break out in cold sweats 12 hours (or 12 minutes) later upon reflection of the shear stupidity of the acts involved? These are those experiences.
Episode 1: That F#$%ing Canoe Trip
A summer tradition for the older Heffernan boys was a canoeing trip on the Little Miami with a group of friends. Typically, I invited my buddies Rhett, Wernke, and Shane and Ted would invite his buddies Jason, Rench, and Tate. The catch was Ted and I are brothers and Shane and Jason are brothers, so the sibling rivalry was palpable.

Preparations for the day-long event began the day prior to the trip. Shane and I would usually spend in the neighborhood of $100 on fireworks and an additional $50 on slingshots. Ted and Jason would do likewise. Neither of us were willing to divulge the contents and size of our caches, both secretly hoping to outgun the other.

On this particular trip Shane had loaded all of our ammo into two large garbage bags for protection from the elements. Normally, this would be adequate to guard against the average splashing incurred from paddles and rapids. What these garbage bags would certainly NOT protect against was Shane tipping over our canoe as we first set it into the water. Shane protested it was because the 6-inch deep water was too cold and moving too swiftly. My assumption is it was because Shane is a pussy. Either way, we managed to salvaged a few bottle rockets, roman candles, and a single slingshot. I looked back as Ted and Jason entered the river. They already had matches lit.

The sheer volume of fire directed towards us for the majority of that 10-mile ride ensured a large number of hits upon our craft. Fortunately, we had positioned Rhett at the head of our canoe - mainly because Rhett was a sissy-pants and couldn't paddle, but also because whenever the maelstrom would begin Shane and I would turn our craft to face Ted and Jason's canoe head on, thus allowing Rhett to take the brunt of their attack.

Although the amount of fire in the air that day was probably enough to set back the ozone layer a few years, the biggest strike we took was from Jason's slingshot. Shane, Rhett, and I had just managed to tip Ted and Jason's canoe by taking Jason's shoe hostage and then ramming them as they attempted to retrieve it. We then pulled away about 70 yards in front of Ted and Jason - safely out of firework and (we assumed) slingshot range - to bask in our glory. Suddenly, I was struck in the back by what I could only believe was either a bullet or some large, misdirected bird. Shane dove to cover me like Jackie-O in Dallas and that's when I heard the cackles from Ted and Jason. I grabbed my back to feel a welt about 4-inches in diameter. Believing they had launch a rock, I let loose a string of profanities that still echo in the Ohio River Valley. I was somewhat sheepish when they revealed the actual culprit - a grape. Before you begin laughing, let me tell you something - a grape launched from a hunting slingshot from 70 yards hurts. It hurts very badly. It hurts like getting punched in the bag... with a grape... launched from a slingshot, except in the back.

Shane and I retaliated immediately. We feigned (well, not really, I was physically and emotionally incapacitated) injury as Ted and Jason moved in for the killshot(s). When they were within range, Wernke released a hail of roman candles. One caught Jason in the gut and just sat there, burning his stomach for what seemed like hours, but was probably only actually like 45 minutes in real life. Jason's scream was more blood-curdling and girlish than mine upon being struck by the grape. He dove into the river - because nothing cleans an open, festering wound quite like the pristine waters of the Little Miami - hoping to relieve his agony and, to a lesser extent, extinguish the large fireball burning a hole in his abdomen.

Victory was ours. We had tipped their canoe, burned a hole in Jason's stomach which still exists to this day, and avoided serious injury (except for the grape, of course). Naturally, Ted and Jason would not allow this to stand and the 45-minute drive back to the Copperglow Compound became a high-speed showdown - Shane, Rhett, Wernke, and I in Shane's '87 Chevrolet Baretta and Ted and Jason in Jason's '90 Plymouth Laser. The driving was fast and furious, but apparently not very exciting because I fell asleep somewhere around King's Island. I woke at one point to Rhett putting on my seat belt, next thing I knew we were winding our way down our street. Mom Heffernan greeted us with this, "Hi, guys! How was it? Oh my gosh! Shane, your tires are on fire!". Mom was exaggerating. The tires were not on fire. Actually, it was the brakes that were on fires. Women... they can't tell a tie rod from a carburetor. I quickly ran to get the hose while Shane fanned his wheels with a t-shirt and tried to convince my mom, "It's okay, Mrs. Heffernan. This happens all the time."

Tires extinguished, aloe applied to my grape-afflicted back, and Neosporin applied to Jason's gaping stomach wound, we settled in for a relaxing afternoon of high stakes badminton in the backyard.