The Swimmer

I have always loved swimming. Before my shoulder surgery, I swam a mile two or three days a week. Swimming was my favorite part of Bible camp and family vacation. It’s what I do to unwind after a long day of work. So, the moniker of “swimmer” would not have seemed pejorative to me the first 10,894 days of my life.
Even on the 10,895th day of my life, there were plenty of swimmers in the Upper and Lower Gauley River. In fact, our raft had 31 “swimmers” (rafter ejections) during our 8 hours of white watering today. [Our guide, Jimmy, said he thinks it set a company record.] But add the article the to swimmer, and I get flashbacks like I did last night trying to fall asleep.
See, all day yesterday people in other rafts and the outfitter staff on shore proclaimed, “So, you’re the swimmer!”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
—
We had just easily nailed some class V and V+ rapids. It was like a Disney ride, as our guide successfully steered us with impeccable lines—even dangerous ones he had never tried in his 100+ runs of the river. I had only minutes prior commented that the rapids didn’t stand up to the fear I had held prior to our paddling.
So, Jimmy pointed our boat to a surfing hole. It was a front wave with a back-end hydraulic. If you’ve never white water rafted, it’s like a front loading washing machine, where the river spins back onto itself. If you can hit it correctly with the raft, you sit down in the middle of it, while the wave holds one side of the boat and the hydraulic holds the other. So, in the middle of a raging river, you can be bouncing in stillness as other boats pass by through less turbulent water.
That was Jimmy’s intent, and we were game.
As soon as we started into the hole crooked, though, I absorbed an acute pang of fear. I’ve had that feeling before . . . right before I rolled my car six times, among other indelible moments.
Four of us six rafters popped out. Three of the four were thrown forcibly into the water, which actually proved a good thing. They were pushed farther down into the water to the under currents carrying them down stream.
The guide counted them as each yanked themselves into the raft. My buddy Will and my new buddy Hutch visually swept the river looking for me. They couldn’t see me in the 150-200 yards between our exit and their position.
I was still in the hole.
Jimmy saw my helmet and yellow wet suit sleeves, as I intermittently rose to the top of the hydraulic. I saw panic in his face, and it scared me. He threw me the life line. It was a laser—right over my shoulder. But I couldn’t grab the rope from the churning water, and the rope bag was a little out of reach. I was struggling for breaths, concentrating on getting back to the surface for air. I didn’t see the rope bag again—or our raft.
Right then, I thought, “This is it. This is where I bite it.” I had flashes of New Zealand adrenaline jumps. I thought about Crystal and what she would think [she’d be pissed!]. Meanwhile, I’m telling myself to swim to the right, to twist swim—to use the evasive maneuvers taught us on how to get out of a hole.
Another raft passed. They, too, threw me a lifeline. Again, I couldn’t grab it, tumbling and swirling somehow in a different direction than my flailing body.
It was hopeless, I thought. I summoned all I had to fight the laws of nature.
Finally, a big red or red-and-black raft saw me. They paddled toward me. I was tired. The guide spun his craft so that he could see me. Then he hit me with the raft. The force of the hit pushed me back under water but thankfully knocked me out of the hole. I had swallowed a lot of water and felt very heavy as they held my life vest against the boat.
This is when Will first saw me. As the rafters pulled my limp body out of the water, he first thought I was unconscious or worse.
I was alive! And that’s what I thought. What I said was, “Oh my God!”
All witnesses recounted that I had paled white as a sheet, that my face communicated an encounter with life. Water poured out my mouth, as I coughed the Gauley’s tentacles back into the river.
Jimmy apologized profusely. “I’ve never had a swimmer situation like that before. Take some time, man. Don’t worry about paddling for a while.”
“No, I’m alright. I’m just glad I’m alive,” I reassured him as I got into position to conquer the next 50 sets of rapids. We all traded stories, as the guys kept looking at me with piercing observation. I felt ashamed for having made everyone worry, for not making the rescue easier. I felt proud of having taken life to the edge. “Man, this just adds to the legend,” I joked.
But with the unintentional story to be told and retold comes the realization that I couldn’t choose the title. All day long I’d be introduced to others: “This is The Swimmer.”
“Are you okay, man?” Some would ask after such introduction, trying to distract from my embarrassment or the connotation of weakness.
“Yeah, dude. Jimmy earned his tip today. This is what I paid for,” I’d reply. “And I’m just happy to be here.”