(This the personal essay I recently wrote for my creative writing class-- I mentioned in the update that I'd post it. FYI, I'm taking college courses to be able to have the re-licensure points to renew my teaching license next year. If you have any comments, feel free to give them. I am self-conscious, so just be tactful if you hate it.)
As I struggled for air, gallons of water, rough water, rushed over my head and around my body pinning me to the concrete pillar underneath the bridge. Instinctively I grabbed it, wrapping my arms and legs around it; it was the only sense of security I had at the moment. My ears were filled with the roar of the river—no sound could penetrate it. I clung to the pillar, afraid of pain more than anything, and surprisingly calm, as if the idea of death that loomed before me didn’t seem as terrifying as I had imagined. I thought about Kevin, my new groom of three months, hoping he had made it safely to the riverbank. I knew he would be sad if I died, would probably cry even, but the thought of having been sealed for “time and all eternity” comforted me. No doubt he was afraid for me, if he had gotten to shore. Ugh, stupid Jody! This was all his fault!
Somehow Jody and Rob had convinced Kev and me to go tubing down the Provo River with them. Perhaps I was the only one of us that needed convincing—I’ve never been much of a daredevil, and getting married had eased some of the burden ever present as a young single girl of appearing tough and tomboyish to impress the athletic boys. Kev really wanted to go and I agreed, just like all the other times in our marriage I’ve agreed to go waterskiing, or when I’ve agreed to go horseback riding. There’s always a bit of reluctance, enough to possibly be labeled as a “party pooper,” but I go merely out of love. It’s sick, I know.
We had driven in two cars, met at the ending point near the bottom of the river, left our light blue ’91 Buick Regal there, and piled into Rob’s car to head up to the starting point. My window at the right of the rear seat, faced the river, and as we drove, I watched with intent every bend in the river, every rock, every current. That pit in my stomach came again. It was an old, familiar feeling—one that came every time I was about to attempt something out of my comfort zone, which oftentimes was something I thought was really stupid. I really don’t remember how long we drove from point to point, but I do remember passing an old, rickety railroad bridge that crossed over the river. The current divided just before the bridge, one current passing smoothly around the outer edge of the bridge, and the other passing directly underneath, which for some reason created a hideous gorge of bubbles, waves, and vortices. Utter chaos. My eyes widened and my pulse quickened.
“Hey, you know, I had a friend that almost died underneath that bridge!” I looked up at Jody. He was smiling. I knew he was just trying to scare me. Reading my emotions has always been easy and he was definitely messing with mine.
“Shut up, Jody, gimme a break!” I pretended it didn't bother me.
“No, I’m serious,” and I could tell he actually was.
“Just as she was going under on her tube, it flipped over, she got pushed under, and her head got stuck in between two boards. She didn’t come back up for, like, two minutes. She was somehow able to get loose.”
I shivered. “And we’re going in there? Are you guys crazy?!”
My husband put his arm around me, smiled, and in his calm, quiet voice said, “Kris, you’re going to be fine.
Don’t worry.
It’ll be fun.”
He could be so convincing.
The car stopped and I climbed out, of course still with some apprehension. I pulled off my shorts and peeled off my shirt, throwing them in the trunk with my glasses and shoes. The guys did the same and grabbed the tubes while I in my swimsuit walked to the edge of the bank, to peek in at what awaited me. I blinked. The water looked so… friendly. There was an easiness about it. A laziness even. Suddenly my apprehension faded, and perhaps I became slightly cocky. It looked simple. I reminded myself, It’ll be fun, and I forgot about Jody’s story, willingly hopping on my tube.
The water grabbed hold of the tube and pulled me along, at a slow enough pace to where I could watch the birds nesting in the trees, and bees gathering pollen from the wildflowers lining the shore. There was a cool breeze blowing through my blonde curls, and I sat in awe of the blueness of the sky, the majesty and enormity of the mountainside shadowing me, able to see every crack of stratification. We all floated down the river, bend after bend, occasionally whizzing by a rock or two or three—enough to create some “rapids” and a bit of a rush. It was at this point when I decided I was glad I had come, glad I had allowed the guys to talk me into going. Nature had never felt so inviting, so peaceful. I’m sure I had some type of schoolwork due by Monday, but I doubt I could remember what it was. I was doing my best to live in the moment, and I felt… free. It wasn’t long before Kev’s tube popped after hitting a rock, and not wanting to swim the rest of the way, he hopped into my tube. I was fine with that, though. Nothing could break my high at that point. Then we turned another bend.
I heard rushing water and snapped my head forward. It was that bridge. I had forgotten all about that horrible thing. I saw where the current divided and Kev did, too. Jody’s story raced through my mind, and the two of us kicked and paddled with fury trying to get caught in the outside current, the safer current. Jody’s friend must have been caught in the current running directly underneath the middle of the bridge. Somehow even with my husband’s long arms and legs flailing in the water, the wrong current caught our tube. I braced myself as the current dragged us nearer at a stronger and quicker speed. My husband knew we would flip eventually, and he advised, “Don’t hold on to the tube. Just let go, okay?”
“Okay.” And the bridge was upon us. It seemed we were to crash directly into the wooden pillar to the left, but just as Kev had predicted, the current grabbed the front of the tube, flipping us out just before crashing. I was pulled under, the water whipping me around until it pinned me up against that concrete foundation of the wooden pillar. I really thought I was going to die. How was I to get out of it? The weight and force of the water was too much to climb up and out. And I was becoming too comfortable with the idea of giving up.
Then a voice, a man’s voice, distinctive and clear. “Let go!”
What? Are you kidding me?! Let go. Oh, right, so the water can drag me further down? No, thank you!
“Let go!”
Oh, fine. I did. The water dragged me down. Uh huh, just as I thought it would. Now I’ve done it! And then it shot me out… and up. I surfaced, gasping for air. Smarty pants. I looked around, and my husband was on the shore, and a look of relief that obviously had been terror, crossed his face. Tears rolled down my cheeks, as he pulled me out and held me. I realized he almost lost me.
“Who was yelling for me to let go?”
“Huh? Well, I think that guy fishing over there was,” he nodded to a man on the other side, “but I don’t see how you could have possibly heard him over the roar of the water. I mean, we were all yelling for you.”
I stared across the river, and then at the torrent of water under the bridge. My chest burned—deep and warm and calming. And with that burning, a burning that had become so familiar as I came to recognize ultimate truth, I knew whose clear, perfect voice had spoken so clearly in my ear.
And as I now look over at my three-year-old daughter Allie, leaning on my bed dressed in her new yellow Belle gown while humming “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” I shudder at the thought of possibly never having her or her little sister around me, giggling and growing. I am reminded of what I would have lost if I had not heard His voice.
Or worse, if I had not heeded it.
