Livin’ in a rafter’s paradise

Usually, when I think of an island—especially one dubbed Gilligan’s Island—I think of a half-mile or so of sandy beach decorated with shells.

This is not what I find at the actual Gilligan’s Island, however. In reality, it’s a pit stop for rafters, located in Carmichael between Ancil Hoffman Park and Hagan Community Park. Here, the small mound of clay looks foreign next to its sandier surroundings of the American River bank. Though absent of plant life, local rafters bring it to life with laughter, drinks and tunes.

I’m not actually on the island, but I’m close—just one swim away from being part of the scene. The boats create an invisible line between the islanders and everybody else on the river’s shore, giving it a sense of privacy. Throughout the afternoon, rafts pile on and off the island, making this river break seem as important as the rafting experience itself. Indeed, this stop serves as a last chance to be carefree before returning to life’s responsibilities—but it’s also a place where people look out for one another, ensuring their safety.

Relaxation comes, at least in part, via blue aluminum cans raised for a birthday celebration against a backdrop of brightly colored bathing suits.

Windblown faces tilt back pouring out an emotion of gregarious cheer—after pouring down some carbonated brew, that is. A beer bong catches my eye—not to mention all the people jumping and dancing around.

Hmm. Must be part of the island’s ritual.

Chatter and music fills the air as one proud rafter tells me he brought three female friends from Stockton to check out the scene.

Meanwhile, a woman swims across the river, and reaching the shore, a nearby islander turns around and takes her hand to help her up to the island. Standing on land, she smiles in triumph.

The island is full of activity but not packed.

“Today’s not so busy,” one island regular tells me. “I’ve seen this place so busy, you can barely even see the water—just rafts.”

Another sunbather shares stories, including one about an older man bringing a stripper’s pole for interested dancers. She describes, too, scenes of mud wrestling and fighting.

The scene in front of me now, however, is docile in comparison: Perhaps it’s my timing, but I don’t see any rafters gone wild.

Before dusk falls and as the beer runs out, the people on the island start to say their goodbyes. On the riverbank, they pack up coolers, children are corralled and bikes are unlocked for the journey home. A CD player, carefully towed away on a small raft of its own, floats down the river, taking the island’s tunes with it.

In the end, I wonder what it is like to cross to the other side and stand on the island, looking out onto the riverbank. It’s as if just being there could bring back my carefree sense of youth. But, alas I do not have a raft.

For now, this is a place is for rafters taking a break from life. It’s their watering hole, and, even if only for an afternoon, it represents a sacred moment to let go, believe in and trust in one another.