Seven Minutes on the Zambezi

This is me and my fearless team braving the white waters of the Zambezi River:



And this is me, seven minutes later, fearing for my life, splashing frantically and watching the last 28 years pass before my eyes:



I’d like to say that I got back into the boat after falling overboard and swallowing what felt like gallons of water. I’d like to tell you that I faced my fears, that I tackled the next ten rapids, and that in the end, I had a glorious time of it.

That in fact, I did it twice.

But that would be a lie.

So instead, I’ll tell you the truth.

I’ll tell you that I was already a bit apprehensive about testing my limits when we signed up for white water rafting our second day in Zambia. I’d been living in the desert for a year, a hundred miles from the nearest body of water. And prior to that I’d lived in New York City, where the closest thing to rapids was a bumpy morning subway ride.

It only makes sense that I’d have my reservations.

The Zambezi isn’t a lazy winding river, but instead a Level 5 nightmare. For a novice like me to take to the challenge was a bit like an amateur attempting to climb Everest. I was already nervous when we piled into our bus, and sitting next to Jeffie B, who grew up in Utah and has friends who are guides on some of America’s most notorious rivers, wasn’t much help. He had endless anecdotes about drownings, failed rescues and of course, death. (He didn't hesitate to share them all.)

Needless to say, it did little to calm my fears.

So when I was thrown from our raft (or, according to Amanda, when I jumped from it), these tales of terror immediately rushed to mind. I surfaced quickly, but my first breath was mostly water, which left me still gasping for air. I tried to remember the directions for a kayak rescue from our early-morning debriefing, but instead drew a blank, as waves pushed me close to jagged rocks and washed over my head.

I was certain I would die. (After all, isn't that how all Jeffie B’s stories ended?)

One of the safety kayakers made it to my side in what was probably less than 15 seconds (though I swear it felt more like a lifetime). He must have seen the fear in my eyes, because the first thing he said was, "If you scream I'll let you go."

For the record, I did not find that very reassuring.

But once I got my bearings and took a breath that was mostly air, he looked at me again and got serious. “Why weren’t you swimming for your boat?!” he asked.

The truth was, I just didn’t want to. I’d given this white water rafting thing a shot—despite my better judgment. And after just seven minutes, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to spend the next three hours wondering if I was going to die every time we approached a new rapid. Clearing the Boiling Point and falling overboard was enough excitement for one day.

A point that was proved when I saw these pictures from later in the ride:







Sure I turned back. And maybe I gave up. But at least I tried (and will probably try again--just not on Level 5 rapids). That’s more than I can say for our driver, who offered me a beer, then called me a chicken, and in the same breath, admitted he was born and raised in Livingstone, worked for the rafting company, yet had never once been on the river.