There were eight of us. Eight guys somewhere north of boyhood and still south of manhood. Old enough to have some autonomy, young enough that “I’m staying at a friend’s” accounted for our whereabouts as thoroughly as anyone required.

Eight guys, two borrowed jon boats, one Maglite flashlight. That was our entire military table of organization and equipment. The boats were borrowed in the sense that we had general intentions of returning them. The Maglite was the big D-cell model, representing a level of preparedness otherwise absent from the expedition.

I should also mention the two cases of beer we had somehow commandeered. I hesitate to classify them as equipment, but looking back, they were essential to getting the operation underway.

It was midspring in the Appalachian foothills of southeastern Ohio. Winter hadn’t entirely let go, and it had been raining for days. The creeks were swollen and running fast. We were restless and in various stages of drunk.

We had spent a good portion of the evening drinking and discussing Led Zeppelin, the life-altering importance of football, and the exceptional quality of our friendship. By the time we turned to whitewater rafting, we had established that no eight guys had ever shared a purer bond, with the possible exception of the Spartans. None of us had any objection to this assessment.

The rafting presented a geographical problem. For the real thing, we would have needed to go deeper into West Virginia. What we had nearby was a creek. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been an inadequate substitute. After several days of rain, it presented real possibilities.

As the evening became the wee hours, those possibilities grew more convincing. We had boats, we had water, and we had eight guys watching one another decide whether this was a good idea. We decided it was. We took the unanimous vote as a safety measure.

Somehow we got all eight of us and those boats down to the creek, along with the Maglite and whatever beer was left. Under overcast skies, out in the middle of nowhere, we navigated the trees and underbrush with our single flashlight.

What I remember most was the sound. The darkness was so complete that we couldn’t see across a creek that would normally have been half a stone’s throw wide. That night, it was swollen with rainwater and roaring at us. A roar that we apparently took as a challenge.

We positioned the boats at the edge of the bank. Normally, the water would have been eight or nine feet below us. That night, it was maybe a foot. We climbed in and pushed and pulled until both boats slid into the current.

The exhilaration was brief. Both boats capsized almost immediately. I remember a collective “OH!” The “SHIT” was drowned out by the creek.

All eight of us were in the water. All eight occupied with staying alive.

I didn’t panic. My thoughts slowed, and my attention narrowed to three jobs: stay above water, make my way to the bank, and hold on to this damn Maglite. It was a $25 flashlight, which around 1990 constituted a luxury item. I also had the sense I might need it.

I angled toward the bank until I slammed into a tree. The water had put me among its upper branches. I caught hold and worked my way out, finally flopping into the mud, gasping, the flashlight still in my hand.

Only then did it occur to me that making it out didn’t mean everyone had. There were seven other lives somewhere in the dark.

I dragged myself up. I wasn’t sure which bank I was on or how far the current had carried me. I was desperate to look and desperate to not find what I feared.

I started downstream, sweeping the light across the water and trees. I couldn’t hear anything over the creek.

The first friend I found was in a tree. What struck me was how small he looked, squinting into the beam. Fear, relief, and what looked like humiliation all crossed his face. We were not Spartans any longer.

Some found their way toward the light. Others we found along the creek, in and out of the water. The search became something we were doing together. They looked like drowned rats. I don’t imagine I looked any better.

One by one, we became eight again.

Our confidence recovered considerably faster than the rest of us. Still wet and cold, we began to agree that this had been fun.

Fun was a generous assessment. Like the original plan, it appeared to be unanimous.

Our principal regret was the beer. Someone proposed going back in after it. We had only just established that everyone was alive, and already the expedition was considering a phase two.

We found one of the boats. Our general intentions regarding the other would have to suffice.

I understand why we preferred to discuss the beer. Calling it fun gave us a version we could carry home without having to say how frightened we had been. No one had to be the boy in the tree. I didn’t have to be the boy in the mud, wondering how many friends were still alive.

The creek was still roaring beside us. There were eight of us again. The Spartans had lost some beer and a boat. They had kept the Maglite. The drowned rats would not appear in the retelling.