I grew up on the outskirts of Bridgeton. It’s located in the Southern part of New Jersey on the Cohansey River. My family lives on a small farm where we grow vegetables and raise chickens. My father ekes out a meager living that he supplements by working in the glass factory in Bridgeton.

However, all my childhood memories begin and end on the muddy banks of the Cohansey River. My best friend Blue and I have fishing rods hidden inside a hollowed-out tree near the river. When the three o’clock bell rings, we rush out the school door. We remove our sneakers, tie the shoelaces together, and sling them over our backs. We set off for the river. It takes us about twenty minutes to get there. In those twenty minutes, we discuss our deepest feelings about baseball, girls, and the world as we know it.

In the summer, we go skinny dipping in the deepest part of the river within the boundaries of Cohansey Park. There is a small zoo populated by a menagerie of animals. The occupants of the zoo include cast-offs of small-time circus, including a lion that seems to be suffering from mange. A quadrant of mischievous chimps whose main occupation is flinging dung at visitors and grinning with all their yellowed teeth.  A pack of wolves rarely shows themselves in the light of day. They come out at night to howl at the unforgiving moon.

Blue and I pretend we’re explorers in the African jungles as we swim au naturale as the king roars on. There are vines that hang from ancient gnarled trees. We climb like monkeys up to the branches that hang over the swirling river. Then we swing back and forth and jump into the river below. The water is really cold, even on the hottest August afternoon—the current moves quickly, especially after a heavy storm. But Blue and I are both strong swimmers.

Summer is a magical period when time seems suspended in a child’s life. I don’t see or feel that there’s an end to it. Blue and I are young and brave and impervious to everything. Our twelfth summer is one that I’ll never forget or regret.

The winter arrives early that year. We receive a snowfall up to our knees before Thanksgiving. Blue and I build a snow fort in the woods beside the river. The zoo animals are all hiding deep in their wooden dens. We decide to take a closer look at the river. I’m the first to put my foot on the icy surface. It’s white and seems hard as a rock. We slide from one side to the other on our booted feet.

One of us gets the idea to climb up our favorite tree and jump down onto the ice. Blue climbs to the top branch, yelling “Geronimo.” at the top of his voice. So loud that it wakes up the King. He lets out a mighty roar. Blue flies out over the frozen river and releases the vine. He hits the ice with both feet on the ground. He smiles from ear to ear. There’s a second roar, and the ice beneath Blue’s feet begins to crack and shatter.

I yell, “Blue, run, get off the ice, and get to the shore.”

Blue’s face registers surprise and then fear. He gets down on his knees and moves forward, but the ice continues to break, and a rapidly expanding hole appears. “Go Blue, go.”

Blue disappears into the murky depths. I see his hands rise up out of the water as he tries to grab onto the edges of the icy hole. He slips down below the surface of the water and is gone.

I climb down that tree faster than I ever have. I get down on the ground grab a branch and slide across the frozen river on my stomach. I reach the hole and look for Blue. I see him below the surface of the ice. There are bubbles of air coming out of his mouth and a silent scream. I stick my arm down into those icy depths. I try to reach him with the branch. He grasps it momentarily, and then I watch in horror as the current pulls him away.

I don’t know what to do. Should I stay to watch him drown or run for help? The ice beneath me begins to crackle and break. I scoot back to the shore and run. I run faster than I have ever run. I see a man standing along the shoreline. I scream at the top of my lungs. “Help, help, my friend is under the ice. I need help.”

“I’m coming, son. Hold on, I’ll get some rope.”

I run back to the shore and move out onto the ice. I can see Blue beneath the ice being pulled farther and farther down the river. I don’t see any more bubbles coming out of his mouth. The tears are freezing on my face. I know that I have lost my best friend.

They didn’t find Blue that day. He’s found three days later at the mouth of the Delaware River. Everyone in Bridgeton attends his funeral. The Tabernacle Baptist Church sings every spiritual they know that day. We form a line a mile long and carry Blue to the Old Broad Street Cemetery. They bury Blue next to his great, great-grandfather. His coffin is covered with white roses. I’ve never seen a face as sad as his mother’s that day, except for the one that stared hallowed-eyed back at me in the mirror.

I’ll never go back to the river again. I lost more than my best friend that day. I lost my innocence, my childhood, and my sense that nothing can touch me or do me harm. It drowned and was dragged down to those murky depths along with Blue.