max parlin

When I saw those rusty orange railings coming slowly toward me around the point, I always knew the time had come. The old raft, to me at least, used to be my favorite place on Earth during summers at the lake. It was something of a proving ground – I had long watched my older cousins splash around from the dock in envy, knowing at 5 and 6 that I was slightly too young to join the time-honored Parlin tradition of ragtag. However, once I got to be 7 and 8, it was on.

 

The first summer I truly came into my own in ragtag was a scorcher. July 4th weekend was hot, sticky and humid – perfect weather to spend all day at the raft with the cousins. Fears of duck-itch were abundant, and the water felt like a bath, but even so, I was out there the whole day, testing out my cannonball form on any unsuspecting victims.

My cousin Jamie, only 10 days older than me, would try to stick together as much as possible. We figured that if we held our breath under the huge metal barrels underneath the raft, we could avoid being heard by the person who was it on top of the raft. Even despite our best efforts, someone would still crack and come up gasping for air, giving our position away. It was definitely a trial by fire – most of the time we ended up being it, chasing after our cousins as fast as our 7 and 8 year old legs could kick.

 

The most embarrassing moments would invariably be when the rag would sink to the bottom of the lake. At first, I was afraid to hold my breath and swim straight down to get it, so I would have to go up to one of the older cousins and ask for them to get it, giving them five seconds to get away.

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As July turned to August, I became more and more sure of my abilities out at the raft, to the point where I even began to engage in some mild trash talk. I was never a small target, even as a 7–8-year-old, but I was increasingly able to dodge and outswim my way out of being it. The older cousins started to take notice as well, challenging me to more one on one chases and asking me for less free shots. Jamie and I went from the unseasoned rookies to the up-and-coming players in the great Parlin game.

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After weeks of being at the raft all day, the summer was finally coming to an end. School was approaching, and the rest of the family had scheduled to take the raft out the next day. It was truly the last hurrah of the summer. As such, we decided to go out with a bang, and had possibly the biggest game of ragtag that summer. Cousins galore came out to the raft and stayed out until the sun got low in the sky. We had made a decision that whoever was it at the end of the game would stay it for the rest of the year until the first game of the next summer. I was determined to not be the sucker.

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The game went on, back and forth for hours. Cannonballing, diving, splashing about, I avoided being it as best I could. Even though I still got pelted a few times, things were looking up for me as the day went on. Suddenly, however, I found myself being it again right as the sun was dipping below the trees. I knew this was the moment, and I dove into the water, thinking of who the last person I would get would be. My cousins Luke and Maxwell, too fast for me in the water, were poor targets. Jamie was already swimming as fast as he could away from me, so there was no way I could catch him in a chase. However, I saw my Uncle Scott on the opposite side of the pole, unaware of where I was. Silently, I dipped my head under the barrel, my strokes propelling me towards him as fast as possible without revealing my location. I approached and tagged him. I had won and avoided being it the rest of the year. My introduction to the great Parlin tradition of ragtag was complete.