Water, Water Everywhere!

I’ve grown up to be a scaredy cat who’s (currently) afraid of heights, lightning, guns, an encyclopedic array of bugs, getting my head dunked under water, violent movies, flying on small airplanes (or big ones), late night (or very early morning), phone calls, all of my doctors, sitting in the passenger seat of my husband’s midlife-crisis (convertible) sports car, sunburn, our central air conditioning system (it tends to spring leaks and ruin our ceilings), calling my swollen big toes “bunions,” and many other things that if I listed them I’m sure you’d believe I should be institutionalized.

A few weeks ago (or was it only a week ago? Oh, how time flies when I’m so hot I can barely move, let alone remember anything) I was in Banff (or as my son-in-law likes to call it, “Banffffffffffffffff”) with my son-in-law’s entire family (on his father’s side), celebrating his grandparents’ sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. One of the planned activities for the trip was a 2-hour white water rafting expedition down the Kicking Horse (or as I called it – Kick Ass) River in British Columbia. Since one of my biggest fears is head dunking, I told my daughter there was no way I was going to participate in this idiotic day of water torture.

But then, my son-in-law’s brother kind of, sort of cyber-bullied me and typecast me as a wussygirl - which I am, but privately, not publicly (until today). This left me no alternative but to prove him wrong by emailing back that I was, too, going, so there, you macho man, arm twisting, semi-relative. So, busted!

Oh, I went all right - but at first with such a negative attitude (and teary-eyed stoicism) you’d have thought I was marching off to be water boarded. I reluctantly squeezed myself into my one-piece black wetsuit, flimsy fleece sweatshirt, yellow rubber raincoat, orange life vest, and orange helmet. I avidly listened to each and every word preached to the group by the rafting guides. I memorized all of the rules, especially the one for falling out of the boat (“feet up, let ‘em greet your face”). My anxiety level was sky high, but I didn’t raise my hand when we were asked if anyone wanted to sit on the bus for the next two hours (which I oh-so-badly wanted to do). When our guide asked if everybody was ready, I was the only one who didn’t scream, “YES!”

The before picture taken of me in the rubber river raft (I sat in the back for the first hour of the ride, then in the front for the last hour) vividly exposes scared-shitless me: my mouth is pulled down to my chin, my body is slumped forward, and my entire demeanor emanates fear. The next picture, taken right after we’d slammed through our first huge wall of ice-cold water, soaking me inside and out, shows me grinning from ear to ear, water dripping down my glasses, arms spread out in utter abandon. Surprise! I loved it!

I loved being scared to death, getting soaked, not falling in (two kids from another boat fell in – our boat rescued one, mute with fear), grabbing on to the ropes (inside and out), following every, single direction, paddling (yes, I even paddled!), shivering from the cold (it was icy cold that day and the water was even colder), going head first into Class 4 waves, and (be still my heart) howling with delight. I can’t lie: I experienced extreme happiness, because the ride was fun (but also because I didn’t fall out).

Would I do it again? Maybe. Is scaredy-cat me glad she went? YES! YES! YES! (Too bad the rafting guides can’t hear me, eh?)

Blame Canada!