Overboard

My work has always required an extraordinary amount of foreign travel, which I love. But the pull of my life at home means that I rarely take a day for myself. However, on a trip to New Zealand, I couldn’t resist the chance to join a whitewater rafting trip down the Shotover River in Queenstown. 

The Shotover River was once one of the richest gold-bearing rivers in the world. Gold was discovered there in 1862, and launched an epic rush. The river flows swiftly from the Southern Alps for 75 kilometers, with rushing water and challenging rapids. It’s magnificent. I had to make the run.

The guides handed out lifejackets and helmets and then pulled everyone in for a safety briefing. The river was running high and fast that day, and they explained that we might lose paddles or people when we got to the rapids.  Fine to let the paddles go, but best to pull the people back into the raft, if possible.

One guide demonstrated how to do so. He grabbed a startled passenger by his lifejacket and jerked him two feet into the air.  It seemed a bit macho and over-dramatic to me.  I may have rolled my eyes.

We were then divided into rafts of six people.  I ended up with a small group of Japanese men.  It quickly became apparent that these men spoke no English and had not understood a word of the safety briefing. 

I helped them get their helmets and lifejackets on correctly and then we were off.  As we approached the first rapids, I gulped. This was going to be wild. 

Ten minutes in, I had to rescue my first companion.  Macho suddenly made sense.  I heaved him back on board and was horrified when, instead of grabbing a safety rope, he bowed in gratitude.  Back in he went. Then two others went overboard.  I began pulling Japanese men back into the raft like trout.

Eventually, we all went overboard.  Our raft arrived at the finish without a single passenger or paddle on board. We bobbed in pathetically a bit later. I had my arms through the lifejackets of three passengers, and we clung together like a soggy bouquet.

Once I safely delivered my boat-mates to their alarmed event planner, I sat in the water at the edge of the river and began to laugh at the absurdity of the entire day.  I laughed until my sides ached.

God, I love New Zealand--pristine and pastoral and drop dead gorgeous, it has the perfect mix of wild abandon and British restraint.  This is a country where a grandmother can enjoy high tea while her grandkids luge down a mountainside.  Motels in New Zealand have heated towels and a bottle of fresh milk in the frig. Who does that?

But on that day, after toweling off, I headed for the pub.