If the River Takes Me

Update: I Lived.

So I “finished” the rafting trip.

Within four minutes of starting, I was underwater. I couldn’t get into the safe float position. No toes up, no head up, no breath. Just tumbling, my pants catching on rocks, my brain glitching.

And the worst part? I wasn’t solo. I had people with me. My people. People I don’t want to lose just as badly as they didn’t want to lose me. That makes it worse. That makes every second longer.

So we got rescued by complete strangers, humanity still showing up, even in chaos. They pulled us in, raft bobbing. Then that raft dumped us too.

Eventually we pieced it together, made it through to safety with bruises, some laughter, and a lotta rocks. Now I’m here.

I’m not saying I’d never do it again.
But next time, I gotta show up a little more ready. With better rhythm and more respect.

Because the river doesn’t care.

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Oh, I forgot this part.

Eleven years ago, last time I rafted this river with my people, one of ours got sucked under a big-ass boulder. We hit it head-on. Lodged. And she went under.

If I hadn’t let her go, the whole raft, my kids, all of us, would’ve been flipped near the main rapid of the river.

So I let go.

And it wrecked me.

This time, when we passed that same stone, I didn’t look at it. Didn’t give it any attention.

Fuck it.
Eyes on the rapids.