21 Foot Drop

My wet suit, booties, helmet, and lifejacket were all tightly secured and checked over by me at least 10 times. I relearned the basics of whitewater raft paddling and commands including my favorite, “Hold on! Get down!” Where I got to hold onto the side of the raft and slide from my seat on the side down into the floor of the raft. I just liked it because I got to sit somewhere sturdy and not do anything. The five other girls and I didn’t feel extremely confident about our rafting abilities, but our Kiwi in-raft guide molded us into military rafting machines as he barked commands.

The raft next to me was stacked. I’m not sure how they ended up with all the body builders, but I was beginning to regret not moving over there when a spot was open as I gazed back down onto my fellow rafters who averaged about 5 feet each… As our guide pumped up the raft to ensure optimal ability and safety I noticed the guide next to our raft slacking on his pumper-upper duties. Our guide kicked his raft a few times, and told him he should pump it up more. With a few choice words, the other guide more or less ensured its perfection. I naively felt relief—even though I didn’t end up with Schwarzeneggers, at least my raft was the proper firmness!

We hopped into the van as best we could with heavy wet suits weighing us down and drove down to the drop off point. Our guide decided last minute we needed to go down first, so we took the top raft off the trailer, which just so happened to be the last one placed there, which just so happened to be the raft belonging to the dang slacker guide. Now we not only had a group of frightened weaklings, but a squishy raft as well…I had no idea how greatly this would affect the next hour of my life.

After going through some small rapids, and practicing our rafting commands until reaching the precision of the North Korean army, it was time for the largest waterfall rapid, or as our guide called it the “oh crap,” except he didn’t say crap…

Our guide had us paddle over to the bank before descending the 21 foot drop. He pulled a branch off a plant and stood up, clearing his throat and looking somber.

“Do you know what this plant is?”

It was a fern thing.

“This is the silver fern, the beloved plant of New Zealand (it was seriously just a leaf) worn proudly by the ALL BLACKS (the Kiwis are dead serious about their rugby mate) right over their hearts to show their love of New Zealand (he rambled off into some more cheesy pep up talk that I lost as the thickness of his accent increased to the point of absurdity as the passionate speech heightened in fervor).

“You will each put one of these leaves in your lifejacket, next to your heart. It will guide and protect us, just as it guides and protects the ALL BLACKS in their blablabla (this guy cannot be serious)

“I will also put a silver fern on the front of the raft (he scrambles to the front of the raft, shakily (the powerful speech really must’ve got to him) trying to tie a droopy looking leaf to a metal ring) and if it is still there at the end of this trip…(long pause as he looks into our wide eyes as we notice the huge waterfall we are steadily approaching with our guide standing awkwardly in the front of the boat not the back where he’s supposed to be steering us away until we’re actually pepped up and ready)…well then mates…we have done a sweet as job.

He turned around and realized the impending waterfall, finally causing him to scramble to the back of the boat where he was needed and steered us back to the shore. After going over the game plan—paddle as hard as possible to the end of the waterfall and then hold on and get down for the drop, as well as ensuring that we had all stuffed the dang weed down our lifejackets, we headed toward the fall.

I admit, I was terrified. And based on the heavy silence adopted by my fellow crew, they were pretty scared themselves. We paddled our little hearts out, heaving forward and backward, forward and backward, forward and backward.

“HOLD ON GET DOWN!”

We dove from our seats on the side in a unison the Olympic synchronized swimming team would be proud of, clutching the raft with white wet knuckles as the raft flew over the edge.

Crash. Head. Water. Water. Water. Light. Water Water Water. Air.

I didn’t even get to see over the edge. All I managed to experience was the cold heavy pull of rapids as the boat, the uninflated boat (dang guide), folded upon itself as it was not firm enough to withstand the waterfall. The back of the boat flopped onto the front. The guide fell on top of me, crashing his face into my helmet. Suddenly I was underwater. It felt a bit like being stuck in a washing machine, seeing the outside through a small circular window but not being able to get to it. Through the inevitable panic, I managed to see light and tried to swim toward it, but something heavy was keeping me down. I pushed up and kicked. Nothing budged. I moved my hands alongside it, all the while trying not to be pulled around and around unsuccessfully fighting the need to inhale. I felt my hands run up the side of it and I bobbed to the surface, pushing the raft away from me as it continued to try to hold me under. Air. Coughing. Slight emotional breakdown.

As soon as I popped up, I saw the guide on top of the upside down raft. He lassoed something and pulled. The raft flipped upright as he jumped, landing inside. He was yelling if everyone was alright, yelling to get in the boat, yelling and counting, yelling yelling yelling.

At this point I was still being swept by the current, but at least I could breathe air. I tried to swim against it toward the raft, but the whole fight for my life underwater thing really tuckered me out. I managed to grab an outstretched hand and get pulled into the raft. The others were coughing up water just as me, a few were hyperventilating a bit. We shivered as the guide told us to paddle hard. All this time we had been travelling fast toward the next set of rapids, and that just wasn’t cool.

We managed to paddle hard away from them. The guide looked us all over. Sheepishly smiling, muttering sweet as, and asking how we were again. Our kayak spotter told us exactly what happened—it was so quick we hardly had any idea. As we collected ourselves, and moved on to the next rapids, at this point smiling and laughing as we relayed each of our experiences, I looked down into my lifejacket.

Peeking out at me was the Silver Fern.

In Pictures...