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 ...