WATER - WHITE AND OTHERWISE
I don't particularly care for “white“ water.
Talk about plain old “wet” water and I'll agree there's nothing finer than a tall glass of nature's brew - especially on a hot summer's day with a few chips of thin ice floating on the surface of the satisfying brew.
The sport of “white water” rafting is all down hill to me. I suppose you can say the same about skiing but there the trees, stumps of former trees of former trees, rocks, fences, bushes and other such hazards are all planted off to each side of your prescribed path well to each side of your prescribed path. Not so when you are sitting on a thin sheet of plastic just inches above hard, sharp rocks and who knows what else, with several centimeters of a hydrogen-oxygen mixture slithering along between hinderer and disaster.
I grew up in a household with a maternal Grandmother who had, as the centerfold of her exciting teen ager life the celebrated Johnstown Flood, 1889 in Pennsylvania. We lived not too far from the eroding banks of a wide, riotous river which could change overnight from a rather placid flow to furious, Lasix-charged waves, swirls and tall-tale ingredients of other tempting aspects.
On TV, watch a load rafters lumbering clumsily down their most daring sluice. Look at them carefully to see if any one is really having a good time. Most are perched there wide-eyed and wary - wondering why they wanted to be there at all. They remember that they seldom see a raft of river rats make it all the way down on TV versions – some clown has to fall off, usually at the very edge of a twenty-foot dam-fall. No seat is the best seat on a river raft it seems. The bounder at the rear end seems to get the roughest ride and those near the front get spray in the face. All seem to be giggling nervously which passes for a sign of enjoyment on film, but I always get the feeling they are glad when the last rapids are behind them and the “crew” is paddling them along in relatively smooth water.
At the landing, they are a fraternity fellow afters. The sacrosanct shibboleths of the white water rafters are now theirs to share with others who are also no longer tyros.
Stand tall. Walk away from the dock with confidence. After all you are not the only one with wet pants.
A.L.M. November 29, 2004 [c426wds]
