Going A-spray

We were an assortment of seven women, ranging in season from ripe to green. Sharing a mini vacation in Virginia in August, we toured D.C., people watched, shopped, binged on chocolate and margaritas, celebrated a 21^st birthday and told embarrassing stories about our significant others. Our personalities were as diverse as our ages; adrenaline-junkie to neurotic coward, border-line intellectual to complete ditz, bombshell to tomboy and drama queen to comedian.

We did have a few things in common. We were all some shade of blonde, from nature's gift to brave experiment. We were all anticipating a much-needed vacation. And, each and every one of us lacked any sense of direction whatsoever. We got lost in the airports and the city. We misplaced our car, our luggage, each other and, at times, our tempers because, luckily, we never lost our ability to laugh.

I wasn't laughing the last day, though. My six hormonal (homicidal?) traveling buddies decided it would be fun to end our vacation with a trip to the local hospital, via a "white water tubing" trip down the Shenandoah River. In the midst of their bubbling confidence and babbling enthusiasm, I was near drowning in a panic attack.

Finally, they wore me down. For the first time ever, I became a victim of mob mentality despite the echoes of my mother's voice reverberating in my head. "If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?" Apparently, yes.

Off we went aboard an old school bus, wheezing into the wilderness. The Shenandoah River, our driver told us, is unique, because it runs south to north. This was actually reassuring since going in the wrong direction had been the perfect metaphor for the whole trip, thus far.

The driver dropped us off on the riverbank with warnings to avoid the waterfall and the game wardens and to be on time for pick up at the end of our expedition or, presumably, be left behind to wander the wilderness forever.

The water was brown, shallow and sluggish. The wind was strong and this mistakenly led me to believe our 2 ½ mile river ride would be over quickly.

With no map, compass or medic, we plopped ourselves into our tubes. They were ready for adventure and I was ready for death. Sitting in the middle of an orange doughnut, tied into a life jacket, movement was limited. Aiming for the middle of the river, fighting the wind, which propelled us into the weeds, and trying not to laugh because we needed all our breath for paddling, we finally got underway.

But where were the dangerous plunges, the glorious glides, and the spray in our faces? Apparently, white water tubing was synonymous with brown water hand flapping.

My heart eventually stopped thumping in fear. We drifted, flapped and basked in the sun. Every few minutes the water pushed us up and over small round stones with barely a ripple. There was more white water in my bubble bath, I thought smugly.

After an hour of paddling, I was getting tired and a little cranky when I spotted large flat boulders decked out in picnickers and sunbathers. I optimistically assumed we had reached the end of our trip, but this was the halfway point and these were the natives gathered to watch the silly tourists.

The river had picked up its pace. I hadn't been paying attention and the boulders were looming closer. They didn't look like friendly little rocks that would gently bump me down the river. They looked decidedly anti-social - the river's granite versions of thugs and murderers.

With nowhere to go but through them, I whooshed along almost weightless. Abruptly, I came to a halt. The water rushed by under and around me but I was stuck between two boulders, bobbing up and down. I looked around, panicked. I was alone except for the strangers on the rocks.

Trapped in a whirlpool, I tried to think. Relax, I thought, there are no bones here from the last person who was stuck; there's no blood on the rocks. I laughed semi-hysterically. Of course there aren't any traces of a casualty, you idiot, the water washed all the evidence away.

I took a deep breath. Worried looks and shouted instructions rained down on me. No one could reach me to help. I couldn't reach the rocks with my hands to push, and still stay on the tube. The tube was my friend now, and I didn't want to part with it. I tried rocking back and forth. That didn't work either. I wiggled and worked with the tube, turning myself backward. I slunk down as low as I could, with my head almost in the water. With my legs bent, I got both feet on the rock and said a little prayer.

One of two things would happen. I'd either push myself off the tube, smack my head and drown, or I'd push myself, and the tube, out of the whirlpool. I took a deep breath and shoved. Like a cork, I was blessedly bobbing my way back down the river.

I caught up to with the rest of the paddlers who seemed nonplussed by my story since they had avoided the boulders, missing the sight of my terror-stricken face and the whirlpool entirely.

We still had another mile to go. Discovering some newly formed, never used stomach and neck muscles during my trip, I was now more annoyed than worried. I started this stupid trip and I was determined to finish it in the water. It was my first and probably last time here, so I was going to make the most of it.

Five of us made it to the end still in the water. Soggy, sunburned and sore, we laughed at ourselves all the way home, just to relive our adventure a little bit longer. I still laugh every time I pass a river or someone suggests white water tubing would be fun, but I'm happy to say it doesn't hurt anymore.