Just Breathe
From the moment the kayak is slowly edged into the water, I can feel myself lose control.
“Just breathe,” I remind myself. I mean, I can see the bottom of the river. Why should I be so afraid?
I wish I could just tell my mind to just stop being afraid.
When I was a child, I used to love going to Caesar Creek to swim (although now when I visit, I wonder how I ever managed to swim in that dirty creek without contracting dysentery). I felt free when I swam, and incredibly powerful. That changed when I almost drowned.
I was so young that the details are foggy, but I remember my day care took us on a field trip to a water park. It was a mixed group of kids, meaning that those of all ages got to go. Some older kids were teasing me, letting me know that I wasn’t cool if I didn’t go on this one water slide.
From the moment I stood in line, it was very apparent that I wasn’t tall enough to be on this ride. I still don’t know how I got through. Why didn’t any adult or employee stop me?
I only remember feeling exhilarated when I was cascading down the slide with the water. Then, just fear. I plunged into the water hard and sank straight to the bottom. I opened my eyes and found myself in a new world that I did not want to be in.
I looked up and saw the sun beaming down on the surface of the water and I stretched out my arms to touch it, but instead my entire body somersaulted. I opened my mouth to scream, but water poured in. From the bottom of the pool, I looked up and saw the lifeguard talking to someone, and wondered if I had been forgotten.
Then, as if by magic, a pair of arms wrapped themselves around my body and dragged me to the surface. I breathed in fire as water came out of my mouth.
After the trip, I came back to the day care drenched in both water and anxiety. Since then, I’ve had panic attacks.
In my mind, it still feels like my body was spinning under water for hours, but that can’t be right. The entire experience, back then, at the moment, must have only taken seconds.
It’s this memory that I continue to push behind as Kyle pushes the kayak into the water. Once the kayak is fully in the water and Kyle is in it, I can feel my muscles start to relax.
Kyle is patient the entire time and teaches me how to paddle. It admittedly takes me longer than I’d like to understand: if I want to steer left, I paddle right, but if I’m backpaddling and want to steer left, I backpaddle left. I try to remember these concepts before we encounter any rapids.
I am with friends. I am with Kyle. Life is good. I don’t feel too hot, too hungry, or too tired. I just feel content (when you work full-time and volunteer on the side, it’s hard to stay in the present and not think ahead all the time). The trees are beautiful. The sounds of nature are both deafening and relaxing.
As I learn how to steer, talk to Kyle, and laugh at the startled turtles that jump into the water, I hear our friends yell “Our first rapid!” I hold my breath a little and brace myself. In my mind, I am thinking of the most tumultuous waters possible, but that’s far from what I see in reality.
Kyle and I decide to move through the center: bad idea. As he guides me through my first rapid, I see a rock coming up and I know we’re going to hit and I know that it can’t be avoided. I panic-screamed “There’s a rock! There’s a rock!” and then I tensed up, thinking this was surely it for me. I was going to somehow die from hitting a rock in a river that was barely six feet deep.
Our friends made it through and they watch us as Kyle (very heroic moment, in my opinion) steps out of the kayak, moves it off of the rock, and steps back in, backpaddling with all his might until the rapids rush us out naturally.
Our friends cheer and comment on how badass Kyle looked. I nervously laugh and calm myself down, hoping to play it off cool, because I had been moments away from having a panic attack.
After that first rapid, everything was smooth sailing. We encountered plenty more rapids, but by that time, I was a seasoned paddler (sarcasm). I was prepared. I had my sunscreen on, sunglasses, and a bag of rye chips (actually not mine, thanks Marie and Tom for letting Kyle and I eat your chips).
Also, I forgot to mention that Kyle and I looked like we were extras in a made-for-TV Indiana Jones film:
Despite having this fear and being plagued with inconvenient panic attacks, I can confidently say that I would kayak again.
When I feel like I’m about to lose control, I tell myself: just breathe.
