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For a boater, a simple ferry like that can be a small piece of ecstasy.
The Party Spot was a small, muddy, cleared bank on the Atlanta side of the river.
Few realize, however, that the precise apogee — the high-water mark for bacchanalia on the Hooch — was reached early in the summer of 1976, the day my high school buddies and I partied with three naked women and their husbands on the banks of the river. Today, you'd tempt fate (or maybe a park ranger) if you yelled, "Hey, Ted: You and Susan bring rolling papers to the Party Spot," over the crowd to your buddies on shore.
But that's what Randy yelled that day as he, Jam, Fred and I launched our canoes through a maze of rafts at the put-in (the names have been changed, to protect the guilty). Unlike the drunks in the rafts, we actually knew what we were doing with our paddles.
Today, a road leads down to it, and there's a small National Park Service parking lot.
In those days, though, you couldn't drive to the Party Spot.
Most weekends, we went canoe camping with some of the best boaters in Georgia.
Some of us even guided rafts professionally on the Chattooga River.
Yeah, sure, there were three burly men sitting there with them ... Since we were all underage, we were happy to drink the beer they offered us.
Two of the lowest of those outcrops form the diving rocks, one about 10 feet above the water, the other maybe 15 feet.
From that point, the water flows southwest along the fault line, all the way down to the Alabama border, where it breaks through the ridge and turns directly south again, toward the Gulf of Mexico.
After all, I thought, I'm a better paddler than any of the guys in her raft were.
We knew we shouldn't move too quickly because we were planning to meet our friends, Ted and Susan, at this place we called the "Party Spot." So the four of us played a little in the next little rapid.