Water

I remember back when I drank water, but now it’s water who drinks me.

A few Julys ago, my family piled in a van to head to the Arkansas River for some white water adventure. We donned our protective gear of wetsuits, splash jackets, personal floatation devices, water shoes, and helmets. Then, on the bank of the river, the guides explained the rules and safety precautions.

“If someone falls out of the raft, they will be rescued,” one of them said. “We can pull them back into the raft using their paddle or the back of their floatation device.”

Then we were told to split up into groups of six and pick a boat. My dad, mom, brother, sister, cousin and I found ourselves Mike, the guide with the lead boat. He told us we’d be the first raft in the water and gave us a few guidelines on paddling.

“After we get past that bridge up there, we’ll practice those strokes in the water,” Mike promised.

We had another raft full of my uncle and a few other cousins. They were going to be the boat right after us. My uncle called to our raft with a comment about us all being from Texas. Mike had a few jokes on the matter.

Once each raft had been fully briefed, Mike told us to load our boat into the river. My feet hit the ice cold water and almost instantly went numb. With my left hand on the rubber raft and my right hand grasping my oar, we pushed off and jumped in the boat.

The rapids swept us off hard, and our raft aimed straight for the bridge pylon.

“Two forward!” Mike yelled. We stroked twice, still heading for the bridge.

“Two forward! Come on, Texas!” We couldn’t execute the command before the current shoved us against the pillar. In an instant, sound cut off as I tried to free my oar from under the boat. We were tilted sideways against the bridge and I thought it was because my paddle was stuck. After what felt like several moments of trying to release it, I looked up to see half our raft empty. My sister was tumbling into the river in front of me. My balance shifted to follow her and I turned around to reach for my mom, but it was no use. She was frozen in fear above me.

Then I saw water. The freezing temperature I felt before was replaced with suffocating heat swarming around me. I couldn’t discern which way was up. I couldn’t even see the sun. I guess my floatation device kicked in and tugged me to the top, but I still couldn’t catch a breath. Rapids unceasingly drenched my face, providing just snippets of clear space to see the bank on my left. The safety instructions from my dad and the guides echoed in my head as my foot touched the river floor. I yanked it back to the surface, not wanting to get dragged under because it got caught under a rock. My sense of hearing returned and I heard someone struggling behind me. There’s no way they can rescue all six of us.

“Swim to shore!” a distant voice yelled. I figured if we had any chance to get out of the water, we couldn’t wait around for the other boats to get us. Still unable to breathe, I flipped over on my stomach and doggy paddled to the left bank. I reached for salvation in the weeds, but they all slipped through my fingers as the current swept me on.

Eventually, I somehow managed to climb on top of a rock and inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Then a head bobbed past me. My family was drowning just like I was. The red helmet went around the corner and out of sight. I looked around on all sides, but there were no other helmets. My family is dead. They can’t breathe just like I couldn’t. What if they don’t find a rock? Where is the rescue boat? I am alone on this river bank and I always will be.

Then the other boat of family members floated up to me. Five of my dry and breathing relatives frantically asked if I was all right.

I nodded, unable to find my voice. They drifted around the bend like the helmet had just moments before.

“Swimmer!” a voice called from the trees behind me. I lifted my arms to show myself to the unknown man, and water released from the sleeves of my splash jacket. A guide poked his head through the brush and reached out his hand. I took it and followed him to an opening by the river around the corner. There, I saw my cousin, Clint, brushing himself off. His eyes lit up as he saw me, and I found momentary shelter in his big arms.

“Come on, Keela, we have to get in this raft.” I looked down at the water to see another rubber boat, already full of five strangers. Noticing my hesitation, the guide said the raft would take me to my family. It took everything I had to step back into that death trap, but luckily Clint still hadn’t let go of my hand.

The other rafters took us further around the corner where I saw my sister on the left bank, getting in the boat with my other relatives. Our raft took us to the right bank, where my dad and brother had found land. Joy overcame me as my father and brother lifted me from the boat and into a hug. Then the anxiety returned. I counted three or four times before I practically yelled at the guide, “Did they rescue everyone?!”

“I think so, yes,” he replied.

“Then where’s my mom?” At this point I was yelling and Dad was behind me with the same concern in his eyes.

“She’s probably around that second corner where they took your sister.” His "probably" did nothing to assure me.

Then we waited. The sun beat down on us like a bully, reminding us of our pain. We couldn’t quite articulate what had happened, so we just baked in the sun, slowly removing our safety gear one article at a time.

Probably an hour or two later, a guide ran up asking about the sick girl.

“I think they said her name was Morgan?” Our ears perked up: my sister. My dad and brother ran with the guide around the shore to find my sister, who was apparently dehydrated.

Another hour after that, they made the rest of us walk our raft down to the same place. I gripped Clint’s hand with white knuckles while we walked through mere inches of the dreaded river, afraid the current would pull us back under. When we finally arrived to the place the rest of my family supposedly was, we found three guides laying in the grass.

“Where’s that family with the sick girl?” I was yelling again.

“Oh, they went back up. They’re done,” one of the guides said.

“We’re with them,” Clint explained before I exploded again. They walked us up this hill through weeds and barbed wire until we reached the road. Then some lady offered us a ride back up to the station where we could find our family.

We thanked her as she pulled up to the rest stop overlooking the river. The car had barely stopped when I opened the door and strived for a glance. Finally, through chain link fence, I saw my mom. Breathing and everything. Despite still lugging around my oh-so-helpful safety gear, I ran through the gate and tackled her in a hug.

EMS was taking my sister’s blood pressure and my brother was packing up everyone’s wetsuits. My other cousins rushed over to hug me as well, recounting stories of us floating down the river like ragdolls.

That night, my dad made us debrief. He’s a fireman and knew this was necessary to deal with trauma. We calculated all the logistics: that I was the first one out of the water, a quarter of a mile from our crash, and that Mom was last, pulled out by a rescue boat a mile down the river, and that the water was rushing at high class four rapids, barely within raft-able speed. We all told our stories to anyone who would listen and we cried for weeks over the near loss of each other. I still write about that day and I still thank God for lifting each of us out of that river. But no matter what trauma therapy claims to do, my nightmares still remind me that water has yet to spit me back out.