“Once you start down
this river,” he continued,
“you cannot get off.”

Each person got a paddle with a plastic, soft-edged
“T” at one end, a life vest, and helmet. I wore quick-
dry shorts and a T-shirt, and leather-palmed gloves
used for kayaking Kootenay Lake, which my husband
insisted I bring. After everyone was outfitted, the
owner of the rafting company offered final words
before launch: “We are going to do everything we
can to ensure your safety, but
if you have doubts about going
down this river, please step to
the side now.”

I inhaled, held my breath.
“Once you start down this river,”
he continued, “you cannot get off. The end is eighteen
miles downstream and there are very steep canyons.”

The memory of the American River came flood-
ing back, and I realized that, unlike twenty years ago,
I wouldn’t be able to seek safety on the riverbank.
Exhale. I would have to consciously choose to go down
this river, the Pacuare, in what now looked like an
over-filled balloon with dental floss for ropes. I saw
my family’s excited faces, and decided to go for it.

I felt good about the initial configuration of the
boat: in front, my husband and Fito, a nature guide,
both experienced boatmen. My son and daughter
were next in line. I was behind my son on the left
side of the boat, next to a tall woman who was alone on
the trip, and behind me was Fernando, our confident
Costa Rican guide with glistening musculature and
a large nose ring.

The first half hour on the Pacuare was idyllic,
Morpho butterflies with iridescent blue wings as
big as a robin’s, waterfalls pouring through holes in
rock faces hundreds of feet high, delicately foaming
river water warm as a bath, swirling like the top of a
perfectly pulled cappuccino. Bright red and orange
bromeliads dangled from canyon walls, birds that
looked like they belonged in a Sci-fi fantasy dove for
fish in front of our raft. At an especially calm part in
the river, Fernando had us practice falling out of the
boat; we pulled each other back in by the straps of our
life vests. I get to overcome my fear of white water
rafting in this beautiful place, I thought.

We navigated the first sets of Class III and IV
rapids well. Fernando shouted a fair number of “get
downs”, the maneuver we practiced where everyone
leaves their post immediately to squat in the center of

the raft, holding tight to one of the ropes attached to the
boat, and, with the other hand, to the “T” end of our
paddles. During these “get downs,” I wanted to avoid
seeing what was coming, so I tightly squeezed my eyes
shut and held my breath.

After conquering a set of rapids, we'd clink our
paddles together in the air hke champagne glasses held
high in victory after battle. Fernando grasped the back
of my vest when we encountered a rapid, and I felt almost
comfortable doing this thing P’d avoided for more than
twenty years. My son patted me on the knee, pride show-
ing in his eyes: “See Mom, it’s actually fun!”

Perhaps the past doesn’t equal the future.

We stopped for lunch at the 10-mile mark, about half
way. The guides flipped two rafts over on the beach
and set up a camping kitchen and buffet table. Out
came flowered table cloths, a small propane stove to
warm corn tortillas, trays of thinly-sliced watermelon
and papaya, sandwich meat, salsa, chips, even M&Ms.
We feasted as if Kings and Queens at a banquet.

Almost as quickly as they’d set up lunch, our guides
packed up camp, and we put back on our gear, the inside
of our life vests dried by the equatorial sun. Our boat
was the second of six. We shifted the configuration from
the morning. My daughter moved to the front, and Fito
moved back a row. While Fernando was still behind me,
this new weight distribution felt less stable.

My body was busy digesting lunch, the scenery
still mesmerizing. We navigated our first Class III
rapid easily. Then we entered a long Class IV called

“Indigestion”, in honor of its proximity to the lunch spot.

Fernando yelled “Get down!” Inhale. Squeeze eyes shut.
Take position.

I thought I had a vice grip on a rope attached to the
boat. We were bumping along as if riding an electronic
bucking bronco stuck on high when I realized I was no
longer inside the boat. Eyes open. I was underneath,
staring at the powder blue bottom of the raft, and
we were heading down the Pacuare together. My last