Today my boat capsized in the St. Joseph’s River. Well actually, the “boat” was a three foot by four foot raft, and the “river” was only four feet deep. Nevertheless, I viewed “Zahmbie,” our raft which we named after our dorm name, as the mighty vessel of our adventure.

We had originally planned to watch a movie until my roommate, who was randomly scrolling through Google Maps at one of our nightly dorm meetings, serendipitously found that river rafting was a lazy Saturday option in this small Indiana town. With a unanimous vote, our Saturday plans changed in seconds, and I was excited for the warm delight of spending time with good friends. But I was also terrified. Growing up, I never did “fun” things like this. My parents had neither the time nor the money for roller coasters or skiing or tasting exotic foods. The list of things my brother and I haven’t experienced goes on and on.

When my three roommates and I stepped foot in “Zahmbie,” my lack of experience declared itself. As I reluctantly sat down, my brand new shoes and khaki shorts quickly became soaked in the water that lined the bottom of the raft. For the first 50 yards or so, I sat back comfortably as we slowly glided down the river with ease, allowing me to savor the cheers from the occasional spectator. But a fierce battle soon ensued. The waves, trying to twist and turn our boat, began fighting us for control. We fought right back. I tightened my helmet and grip on the paddle as we anxiously maneuvered “Zahmbie” around the threatening waves and towering rocks. But the current only grew stronger. “Zahmbie” began to careen out of control, crashing into those same rocks. My heart raced like it never had before, and my friends all started barking commands, trying to steer the raft as it spun left and right, even traveling backwards at some point. About halfway through the ride, as we rushed toward a massive whirlpool, we realized we had lost all control. So, we let go of the paddles and just laughed hysterically. As the raft got sucked into the whirlpool, water quickly rushed in. “Zahmbie” gave in, flipping under the sheer power of the water within seconds. I felt a few moments of panic as the boat, stuck on top of my head, prevented me from resurfacing, but I soon fought and kicked my way above water. Passing up on the rope that the nearby lifeguard had thrown to me, I floated on the surface as the current whisked me to the end of the course. All I could think about was repeating that excitement of flying down the river with my friends. 

“Let’s go again!” I exclaimed upon arriving, something I never imagined saying just ten minutes earlier. I was hungry for another chance to crash into the waves or flip over. 

I never would have imagined the unexpectedly heart-pounding and endorphin-packed delight of whitewater rafting, but I think I am a proponent of the delight that results from taking chances and finding new forms of excitement. The excitement of exploring a new forest with only matches in hand, or hiking that towering, fear-inducing mountain. Though my left shoe was swept away, probably to the bottom of Lake Michigan by now, this thrilling delight came with doing the opposite of what I was used to, outliving my fears, and experiencing more that life has to offer.