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The Sandia High School Band was on a trip to Colorado Springs. During the days before our performance we saw the sites of the city. This is when I had the most chilling experience of my life.
Leaving the hotel, we loaded the Greyhound bus. Snow fell from the gray sky and the winter smell of fireplaces lingered in the air. On that day, May 4, 2001, the risk-takers of the band were going river rafting on the frosty Arkansas River. The bus journeyed the half-hour trip to White Water Rafting Tours. Once there, we received our equipment and were told to be in the bus in five minutes. Our gear consisted of a wet suit, boots, life vest, and a water resistant jacket. We suited up in the crowed bathroom and then loaded the less luxurious school bus.
"Vroom," the bus's engine struggled as we went up the dirt hill to the rafting site. Here, the staff briefed us on our mission, to travel five miles down the river.
"The river is freezing," the leader told us. "If you stay in for more than three minutes, you will get hypothermia. If you fall out, hold onto the oar, lie on your back, keep your head up, and let the river carry you until a raft guide throws you a rope." I shivered thinking about it. We divided into groups and tip toed in the bitter cold water while boarding our rafts.
The beginning of the river was a calm section where our guide taught us the commands that he would use once we got to a rapid portion. The first rapid came suddenly. It was bumpy. Rocks surrounded the path. Our group had not mastered the rafting skills and when we steered the boat into a rock, inertia and lack of grip launched me out of the boat.
Rick, our guide, looked at me, stunned that I fell out of the boat on the first rapid. I was too far to reach from the raft. My mind raced. I thought of the instructions: feet first, head up, wait for rope. Rick looked as if he wanted to try to throw the rope, but he knew it would not reach. I swallowed a gallon of burning cold water. As I floated down the nippy Arkansas river, I saw a photographer on land snap pictures of me, then reach for his safety rope. The photographer tossed the rope and I caught it easily, now a hundred yards away form the raft. The short, skinny, man had a difficult time reeling in a six foot, two hundred pound, frozen block. Finally, after what seemed like more than the dreaded three minutes, the photographer rescued me. Miraculously I still held the oar.
The photographer helped me back into the raft where four worried cheerleaders and my laughing friend Jon, stared at me. Lips blue, shivering, and in shock, I traveled the rest of the voyage clenching the raft tightly.
Holding on to the paddle!
Copyright 2001 Andrew.
All rights reserved.