Run River Run

Yeah, I totally stole that name – Ann Zwinger, incredible author, boater, and all around lovely woman, came up with that for one of her books, but, it’s perfect here so I’m at least giving her credit as I pilfer her title.

Anyway…

Two summers ago, right at this time of year, when the rivers were peaking and some even flooding, I almost drowned.

Seriously almost drowned – not an exaggeration, not being a drama queen – we’re talking, sinking underwater, about to give up and accept the end, understanding the depth of my will to live, not going to leave my children motherless, completely life-altering, drowning.

Years ago a friend of mine drowned – I know that it happens.  I do not think that I am invincible in water. I have always had a healthy respect for the power and unpredictability of H2O.

And yet, I’ve also had complete confidence in my boating and river-navigating skills.

So coming that close to the bottom of the river was not only terrifying, but came as quite a surprise.

What also came as a surprise is, once I dumped out of my boat, everything I’ve ever known (and taught) about river safety, went right out the window in my panicky fight for my life.

For a brief bit in the ensuing days, I tried to convince myself that it really wasn’t that big of a deal, that I was fine. I tried to sort through real danger vs. perceived danger. I attempted to list the incident under the latter.

But then, for the first time in 20 years, I didn’t want to get on the river. The sound of rushing water caused my heart to race. I stood on river banks, thankful that I was on dry land.

This was so unlike me – the obsessive boater, the person who took to the river over and over again as refuge and respite.

That’s when I realized that this had been actual, real danger.

I’ve become afraid of the ocean. I recently had to turn off a surfing video because seeing that much water from a go-pro’s perspective was unbearable.

I’ve only been boating a couple of times since then. I have let other people row my boat. I’ve lost all trust in myself.

Last weekend we had company in town and decided to take them on a float. Our river options are currently aplenty. Big water everywhere, rivers flowing that haven’t flowed in years.

I am actually the person who suggested the one day adventure. I had hoped to float my dearest river, which usually takes 2 or 3 days, in a day. The weather is warm, (in case someone accidentally took a swim) and since I know the river like the back of my hand, it felt like the safest option.

But, no permit. That still left 4 other stretches of water from which to choose. Trying to make that choice left me stressed out and unsure of myself. There was even some tension with MCB about it until he came up with a manageable plan.

Once it felt like someone else was in charge, I was able to relax just the tiniest bit.

At the put-in, I was quite spastic – concerningly so. I couldn’t remember how to rig my own boat. I tripped getting onto it (while still on dry ground) and ended up face down in the bottom of the vessel. I slipped, I almost backed my truck into a ditch, couldn’t maintain my footing as I squatted to pee.

MCB assumed that I would be rowing. He had confidence in me that I didn’t have. Yet, I did bring a huge heap of ego with me which made it impossible for me to not jump on the oars in front of our company.

When we finally went afloat, I got an oar stuck twice in the current, I got yanked off me feet, I slipped, I got the other oar stuck in the willows, and I couldn’t manage to get off-shore.

I rowed for a little while, I negotiated a few wave trains, I practiced my strokes trying to regain my ease and composure at the helm. In my head, I repeatedly talked myself down.

Then I offered for any of the others to row. First one guest did, then the second. Then MCB jumped into the driver’s seat and I lay down on the front of the boat, able to relax knowing that we were in capable hands.

The next thing that happened took my by surprise. I began to get that familiar I Want To Row itching. It took a second to realize what the feeling was, but when I did identify it, I thought, I’d better get on those oars right this second or this desire could pass on, maybe forever.

So I totally passive aggressed MCB into letting me row again. I wasn’t really fair to him about it but I wanted to nurture this little shift from fear to familiar comfort and thought that I let him continue to row, I might never be brave enough to do it again.

And thank goodness he’s a gentleman.

I rowed. Not totally smoothly, not flawlessly, but with budding confidence and no major mishaps.

It was healing, but really, it was just fun. The kind of fun that one gets to have in a beautiful place, with water and trees and views, the kind of fun that happens when everyone feels good about where they are and what they are doing.

This was huge.

I even took a quick swim at the take-out.

So now, I am obsessed again. It’s a relief, really, to know that I haven’t been scared off forever.

I’m not ready for “big” water – I may never be again, and I am okay with that.  I can start with what is small and familiar.  If I get beyond that, great.  If I don’t, I’m super fine with that, as long as I can enjoy floating in some of my favorite places and not have panic attacks.

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Area 51

Today is my birthday.

I am so not a birthday person – my kids probably feel short-changed in their minimalist childhood birthday celebrations but, what can you do?

Anyway, for the last week my family has been saying, “Oh, next Tuesday is your big day.”

My response?

“Why?”

Then this morning, MCB gave me a treasure trove of treats and I was actually caught off guard.

“Presents? Really? Huh.”

Bless his heart – he loves birthdays so much that I am probably a total killjoy.

Then I went to work.

Peter asked, “You’re working on your birthday?”

It never crossed my mind not to. What the hell else would I do?

Maybe I am a killjoy; especially for myself.

Then I tried something; someone came into the cafe who I’ve known for a long time and I know he wouldn’t snicker at my 51 years.

“Can I tell you a secret?

“Sure.”

“It’s my birthday.”

I never ever announce my birthday to anyone, but this is the new me (at least the me that I am trying on for size. The me that maybe doesn’t believe that other people should be avoided at all costs)

Then I told someone else. We talked about the 50’s being the best years of life.

I stopped telling people after that. I’d garnered enough attention for one day.

But I want to clarify, my lack of enthusiasm for this special day has nothing to do with the fact that I am aging. I am truly one of those people who doesn’t freak out about advancing in years (although there are times when I feel like I am older than everyone else in the room.)

I’ve stopped worrying about being cool. I’m saying “yes” to a lot more these days, because, why not. I’m not so concerned with offending people or having everyone like me or being in the “in” crowd, or whatever else.

Fifty brought a new nonchalant attitude. Fifty-one is expanding on the theme.

So, so far, 17 hours into it, 51 is totally working for me.

adolescent boy humor

If you want to retain any sense of respect for me, stop now.

I’m about to expose my utter lack of maturity.

I have a poop story to tell.

If you’d like to accompany me to the land of gross, come on. If not, see you tomorrow.

Elvis Aaron Presley The Dog and I went to the park for a walk in the snow.

He does this really weird thing when he poops; he likes to prop his butt up high on a clump of snow. It’s awkward for him and fascinating to me.

So today, after he finished he stepped down from his butt rest and there was a dingleberry still tethered to him by maybe a long hair or something. I couldn’t see.

It doesn’t matter what it was, the important thing is that the anal hair allowed this piece of shit fly around and smack him in the ass when he started to take off.

He jumped, like, 3 feet in the air, where, of course, it hit him again, so then he hunkered down, cowering in the face of this relentless turd.

Did I help him?

You’ve gotta be kidding.

I was too busy losing my shit.

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I love this kind of shit

Brazilian Joao Maria de Souza was killed in 2013 when a cow fell through his roof onto him as he slept.

Sigurd the Mighty, a ninth-century Norse earl of Orkney, was killed by an enemy he had beheaded several hours earlier. He’d tied the man’s head to his horse’s saddle, but while riding home one of its protruding teeth grazed his leg. He died from the infection.

Paul G. Thomas, the owner of a wool mill, fell into one of his machines in 1987 and died after being wrapped in 800 yards of wool.

In 1567, the man said to have the longest beard in the world died after he tripped over his beard running away from a fire.

An Irish woman died in 2008 after voluntarily having sex with a dog. The exact cause of death is unclear, although it was speculated that an allergic reaction to dogs might have been the cause.