The chill of the water hits first—so cold and shocking it’s nearly nuclear. My body feels it before my mind does. I erupt into goose bumps and shivers simultaneously. And then, as my brain registers the icy water, come the yelps. No, not icy—spring-fed. But still.
It’s a warm April day at Chalk Bluff River Resort, and I’m taking my first steps off the banks of white rocks into the forest-green waters of the Nueces River. I have only waded up to my calves, but I can’t stop flinching. I let out little whoops to psych myself up to step further, go deeper. All around me are the sounds of a Saturday in river country: adults setting up tents and portable grills on the banks; scents of seasoned meat and onion; fearless kids swimming through the water smooth as bass; radios blasting Megan Thee Stallion, Morgan Wallen, Selena, and other music that mingles with our chatter, splashing, laughter.
My hometown is 15 minutes away. I grew up on this river and the others like it nearby. I’d jump off rope swings into the water with my sister and my dad, splash my mother—who was usually warm and dry on the rocks—so she shrieked and laughed. All of this on the Nueces now should be familiar. The sounds, the cold. But it isn’t. My sister isn’t with me. My father, like me, has moved away. My mother has been gone six years now. The water is cold, colder than I remember.
I tell myself to keep moving and fight the urge to turn back to the sun-warmed riverbank. , I scold myself. . But it’s strange being here today, in the wake of years gone and the
