Here’s a weird fact about me: I love white water rafting. I do not love lazy rivers. It makes no sense. White water rafting is expensive, requires life jackets, helmets, paddles, and usually scheduling with a company or a guide. It also usually requires travel. Lazy rivers, on the other hand, can be found at pretty much any water park, require only a swimsuit and a likely-pool-provided inner tube. (Some folks get fancy with a floatable cooler, and to you I say, “Where is the floatable toilet?” but I digress.)
I have rafted class IV and V rapids. The highest rating of rapids is class VI, and as one blogger described them, “just don’t” do it. I have rafted in West Virginia and Ohio. I have even rafted on a man-made river in North Carolina (though the cement walls were a little unsettling). I have rafted with youth groups, college groups, and even my husband.
I have ridden (which feels like too strong of a verb) maybe two lazy rivers in my life.
As I have passed the days and weeks leading up the birth of my child, a friend encouraged me to picture floating downstream (a la lazy river). I was getting swept up in the anxiety, emotions, and what-ifs of the days and he said, “Imagine floating down river on a raft, rather than envisioning being swept away against your will.” (He said some other wise things in that conversation, but for now, let’s talk about this comment.)
I don’t float.
I think I actually failed that part of kiddie swim lessons. (I also failed diving, for similar reasons) It’s not that my body isn’t able to float. I just don’t let it. I don’t hold still long enough, relax my limbs enough, tilt my head back to the proper angle, to float. Floating feels vulnerable, even in an inner tube. It highlights just how out of control I am. The couple of times I have floated on a lazy river, I have used my hands to paddle or my feet to kick off a wall in order to keep up with where I wanted to be.
That’s why I like white water rafting–the control. Or perhaps, the illusion of control. When you raft, you have an assigned seat on a specific type of raft. You have a paddle. There is a guide (who you assume is professionally trained but also smells like weed) at the back of the boat, who talks you through how to paddle and screams instructions as you enter each rapid. He or she guides you through much smaller rapids first, encouraging you as you paddle this way or that, leading paddle “high fives” after passing through. Your guide tells you how to strategically fit your feet into the raft and how to properly fall out. I, of course, wedge my feet into the crevice in the raft in such a way that the raft will likely drag me along, rather than toss me out, but why take the chance?
I like having a tool (a paddle). I like having instructions (an experienced guide). I like knowing what’s coming next. I also even like having a team, because there is no chaos if everyone does what they are supposed to do (Hi, Enneagram One here). And honestly, I love the adrenaline rush and the thrill of the raft being sucked into foaming white water.
But would I like the rapids without the tool, guidance, and team? No. The thought of being alone in a raft headed into a rushing water and waves feels incredibly vulnerable and dangerous.
Honestly, it feels a little like being in an inner tube.
Now listen, usually the worst thing you’d face in a lazy river is a.) obnoxious middle school boys splashing each other or b.) a random branch.
But it’s the exposure. There is no preparedness in a lazy river. You’re just…there…with no advance warning of what will come next.
Vulnerable. Open. Exposed.
But is that the reality of your situation? Diogenes once said, “It is not the event itself that makes a man go mad, but the interpretation he makes of it.” Why do I automatically assume that I am vulnerable and out of control? Why do I expect catastrophe? Why do I search for armor to put on? That’s probably a much longer conversation to have with a trained mental health professional, but the reality is–our world isn’t as dangerous as we believe it to be. While the white water rapids are exhilarating, they are also exhausting. And guess what your guide tells you to do if you fall out of the boat?
Float.
Put your feet up and float. Because if you kick and struggle in the water, there’s a high chance that you’ll get a foot caught between rocks and get stuck, endangering yourself. Put your feet up and float, and another boat will eventually pull you onboard. I did fall out once, and my automatic response was to flail and kick and scream, but that made it all worse. Thankfully I heard the guide yell, “Float!” and I stopped my thrashing and let the river carry me downstream.
Float.
Ultimately, you need to float to survive. Isn’t that a paradox? You need to let go and be vulnerable in order to survive.
I’ll be processing that one for awhile. In the meantime, float on, friends.
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