Danny Freska

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Shoot The Rapids

I remember white water rafting in West Virgina.


The Buffalo River glistened as the early morning sunlight danced on its surface belying a certain calm which would later turn into a raging, angry waters.

As Captain Mike handed us our rafting equipment, he reassured the group that by working together we would make it back to base in one piece.

The cold air encased me making me shiver as tiny, prickly goose bumps began to appear on my arms and legs.

Wishing this damp, clingy, moldy, smelling orange life vest would release its encasing grip on my upper body.

In the background, chattering teeth gave away the nervous energy of my boat mates.
(Was anybody on this raft really experienced enough to go through Level five Rapids?)

Fear and anxiety oozed from my pores adding to the smell of the damp musty raft.

Suddenly and without warning, the thundering roar of white water rapids produced an ear-splitting sound which did little to calm my already stressed nerves.
The water foaming all around me like a squirrel with rabies.

People began to bounce around in their seats resembling popcorn kernels bouncing around in a microwave.

And Captain Mike began to howl at us to keep rowing together so our boat wouldn't tip over.

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