Huckleberry Finn, in spite of his fondness for fantasy, told a few tall truths in his day. Reflecting on his skiff's often tranquil path down the Mississippi, he decided simply that "there warn't no home like a raft."

I got to thinking about Huck and his runaway companion Jim while cruising down a different river last weekend. I had rented a kayak with a friend for a lazy afternoon exploring the stretch of the Charles River adjacent to Brandeis.

Charles River Canoe & Kayak's charming boathouse is tucked away on Route 30 right next to a coarse, Miami-pink painted Marriot. If you have a car on campus, you've likely passed within seconds of the place countless times en route to I-95.

After renting a $1 dry-bag for our possessions and agreeing to the modest $18 per hour fee for a two-person Kevlar kayak, we selected a pair of oars and suited up in life vests.

We were then led to our boat by a rather laconic staff of bronzed teens who offered little advice on navigating the river.

"Which way is Waltham?" I asked, thinking it might be nice to spot some Moody Street landmarks from the murky waters I had walked over and alongside so many times in the past three years.

"Uh, that way, I think," said a staff person, pointing toward Newton. She consulted an older kayak-mate for the correct direction.

And so we pushed off, evading first a team of Japanese tourists in a five-person canoe and then a group of Russian migrs who, five minutes after setting out, lit a joint for a slightly more subdued cruise.

After mere minutes of rowing, we were alone in the river and stunned by the serenity of this place, so close to a school which so often seems so far from serene.

If I were blindfolded, I still would have been delighted. And I did in fact close my eyes for a time, taking in the sounds: the cutting noise made by the kayak gliding through vast tracts of water-lilies (I never could've imagined it); laughter; the rhythmic rowing of more experienced oarsmen; and the idiotic splashing of our paddles as they happily smacked each other, dashing cool water onto our legs and hands.

Scott, my first mate and photographer, spent a good 30 minutes stalking a bird that I said looked a lot like an egret, but, truthfully, I had no idea what the hell an egret looked like.

I thought this was significant, since I never before cared about birds. As we sat behind the bird, patiently waiting for our picture, the egret-like creature leaned forward, raised its tail-feathers and tensed its legs.

"It's about to fly away," I told Scott.

But then, as a certain something slid peacefully down from the bird's perch and plopped into the river, it became clear to us that this egret was not flying anywhere.

"Yes!" I thought to myself. "This is so natural."

Moody-Street-bound again, we spied some of the quaint homes along the river. It's a more intimate type of voyeurism looking at a house from behind. Some homes were hidden by the weeping willows and oaks that surrounded their charming docks. Others had their back yards open to the Charles and all its curious boaters.

The spying went both ways. On two lime green wooden lawn chairs, an old couple silently stared at the kayaks passing by. It felt a bit like an invasion. We were the ones on this hushed, onyx observation deck; no one was supposed to see us.

Later on, we were getting oddly close to Brandeis. We passed by the cemetery situated next to Brandeis' Charles River Apartments. I remembered stumbling through it one night freshman year, after finally discovering what shot glasses were used for.

As we passed by, I half-regretted that twilight traipse; the wide view of gravestones along the river drove home the morbidity of the place-steely and obvious-like a nail into a coffin.

It kind of bummed me out, until I noticed a life-size statue of a stern-faced Cherokee peering out from behind leaves on a small strip of land in the middle of the river. How did it get there?

As we glided into Waltham, the scenery got increasingly industrial and the skies adjusted accordingly - becoming gray and erasing all the wonderful shadows over which my photographer friend was salivating.

We hadn't eaten all day, and the prospect of Moody Street fare was enticing. So, without knowing whether it was permitted, we docked our kayak by Cronin's Landing and walked into downtown Waltham.

We were sporting life jackets and sandals, and I had put on a Panama Jack hat earlier in the day that I thought made my outfit more nautical. But two mariners we were not. No, our identities stayed the same throughout the outing. The same can't be said of Waltham's character, though, which in my mind had changed dramatically over the course of our three-hour cruise. This dull city, which from land is at best described as quaint, looks lovely from the river.

And six years since I read of his adventures in high school English class, I finally got what Huck loved about the river and the kind of nature that surrounds it, the kind of moments it encourages.

"It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study."

If you're even a shade as smart as Huck, blow off the bleak streets and shops of this one-horse town for the beauty of the river that runs through it. And do it before winter.

Editor's Note: For more information, go to www.ski-paddle.com