I hopped aboard the inflatable raft, which was already trying to drift downriver without me.
“And we’re off!” My grandfather proclaimed enthusiastically. The last boat in our small caravan had shoved off of the shore and into the Colorado River. For the next sixteen days, I would sleep outside, drinking purified river water, and braving swift currents.  Scorching hot sun and freezing cold river water would accompany.
This journey of about two hundred miles by boat would climax at the infamous Lava Falls, rated a nine out of ten in the guide k.
On the ninth day of our journey, we pulled our rafts to the side, climbing black volcanic rock to formulate a strategy for traversing the brown and white monstrosity that nature had placed in our path. Even my thoughts had been silenced in awe. Jagged rocks formed deathtraps where an insignificant rubber raft, as well as its crew, could easily meet its end. One raft at a time loosed its bindings from the shore and descended the rapid, until our time arrived. A strange mix of fear and confidence filled my head and nerves, as the current dragged our raft closer to the rapid’s mouth. My grandfather struggled to steer the oars across the ridiculous current. We crashed into a standing wave, jarring everyone and loosing a spare oar from its straps on the starboard side. I dove to save it, however this meant that I was unprepared for the next impact. Muddy water slammed me into the deck.
When I arose, I was delighted to see that we had survived to see the calm, but not quite clear waters ahead, along with the remaining rafts in our group. My grandfather still commends me today for my quickness in saving the rather expensive fiberglass oar.