Happy To Be Alive....Basically

I told Justin that whatever happened, he was not to get into the boat with that family. We were at the Ottawa River, about to go white-water rafting again. It was one of our favourite pastimes and since my husband was in Spain, we decided to take a little holiday and do something fun together.

The day before, the rafting company took all of the potential rafters out in 12-man rafts to practice their existing skills or to gain new ones.  Our guide was a young woman who spent most of her time telling us off-colour jokes; very inappropriate considering there were several young children 'on board'.  She did almost nothing to instruct us in the art of rafting. Among the twelve, was a family of four. The father was loud and his mannerisms were grating.  I remarked quietly to Justin that this was obviously the first time in a boat for the family. They didn't know how to hold the paddles, much less manipulate the raft. The instructor announced that the next day we would be in rafts of six and one person on each raft would have to be the guide.  She asked if there was anyone who would like the job. I nudged Justin.  We had been rafting several times before and even though he only fifteen, he was very good at canoeing.

"Put your hand up, please."  I whispered.
  
"No, I don't want to."

Something inside told me to insist.
  
"Put your hand up!" 

"No, let someone else do it!" 

"Please, do it for me," I hissed.

"No, I really don't want to." 

The 'father' raised his hand, and even though his lack of experience must have been glaringly obvious to the instructor, he was made captain of one of the rafts for the following day.

When we disembarked and were walking back to the lodge, we discussed the father, his timid wife and children, and their dearth of knowledge and general clumsiness when it came to rowing. 

"I'm so happy we don't have to be in their boat tomorrow.  I feel sorry for the unfortunate people who'll be stuck with them."  

At the same time, I had a strong sense of foreboding.  

The feeling that something terrible was going to happen kept me awake most of the night.  I attributed it to my imagination, telling myself that everything would be just fine. The next morning, bright and early, we were off to the meeting place.  As we were walking to join the others - some 45 to 50 people - I noticed the johnny-on-the-spot and thought I would use it before we set off.  

Before I went in, I turned to Justin and said, “Whatever happens, do NOT get into the raft with that family.”

"I won't," he promised.
  
When I exited the W.C. and walked toward the river's edge, I saw him standing near a raft with the family.  My heart sank and panic set in.  

“What are you doing here?” I whispered angrily.  “I told you NOT to go with them!” 

“The father saw me and called me over. He said there were four of them and two of us and that we should come in the boat with them.  I didn’t know how to get out of it.”

“You should have said NO!”  

Instead of listening to the small, insistent voice that was telling me to take my son and run back to the lodge, I unwisely relented. 

We climbed into the raft with the unpleasant man and his family.  The other groups got into their rafts and were on their way.  We followed. From the outset, it was hard-going.   The wife and children tried to help, but their efforts were ineffectual. Justin and I were the only ones who knew how to paddle and we had the weight of a large raft and four other people to carry.  We lagged far behind the other boats.  The father laughed and joked and was generally obnoxious. 

"Hey, look at those mounds over there, hon.  They kinda look like yours.  And that one over there, looks like a johnson."  I was disgusted.  How could he talk like that in front of his children and strangers?  Justin had finally had enough and angrily told the man to pay attention to where he was going and to start guiding the boat. It took forever to reach the rendezvous point at the river bend where all of the others had been waiting for us for some time.  

Two guides were with the rest of the 'armada' ready to tell us about the level 5 (dangerous level - level 6 being the most dangerous) water chute we were about to experience and how to make it down safely.  One of them told us that we were to stay to the left at the beginning...NOT to go to the right. When he gave each of us the go-ahead, we were to paddle hard to the left, then as we started our descent we were to stop paddling, get low in the raft and then midway down we were to get up and paddle very hard and very fast to the right. They assumed that we all knew our left from our right, but failed to take into account our 'captain' who, as usual, was having a grand old time, joking around and laughing and guess what....not listening.  

The rafts started down one by one and once each made it down safely, the two leaders got the next one lined up, ready to go.  We were up next.  As we began our descent, our 'leader' started shouting, 

"Right, right...hard!"  

His family started paddling furiously. 

Justin yelled, "NO, not right....LEFT, you idiot!"  

Too late!  Wrong way!  Our raft plunged down into the crevice we were supposed to avoid, and was tossed up by the rushing water. Then, when we were supposed to paddle right, the leader shouted, "Left!" and took us smack dab into another deep crevice.  We were wedged in, the raft bucking and shaking violently under a waterfall on the left side of the boat.  It flipped to the right briefly, and the whole family was ejected from the raft into the boiling rapids. Justin and I were left alone in the boat.  He was ahead of me and I was near the back.  At that time, I had a good 10 kilos on him, so the back of the boat was low in the water. The water from the falls crashed heavily on me, pushing me down and making it nearly impossible to sit up or to take a breath without choking.  It was unceasing in its effort to crush and drown me. Justin's end of the boat was high and clear of the falls.  He managed to turn around, and tried several times to help me sit up under the overpowering weight of the water, but was struggling to stay on the raft himself, so there was little he could do for me. 

"Are you all right?" he shouted. 

"Mama, are you all right?"

I couldn't breathe, the deluge was choking me, but I didn't want to scare him. 

I finally managed to gasp, "I'm okay."  I was very far from okay.

The water continued to hammer me.  I was sure I was going to drown.  I was being asphyxiated by the continual onslaught.  I couldn't hold on to my paddle and the ropes on each side of the raft, so I released the paddle. Many minutes passed. I struggled to hang on but we were being tossed from side to side so violently that all of my efforts were becoming more and more futile.  I could see several of the guides standing at the side of the river watching us helplessly.  My arms ached and were weakening. I was terrified of being tossed overboard, but it was too much.  The relentless flood of water in my face and the powerful lurching of the raft finally won out; without warning, I found myself in the water. I could see the belly of the raft above me. The current lifted me up until my face was touching the underside. 

I'd had no time to take a breath before being plunged into the water and knew that this was it.  My life was over.

"Lord, I never thought I would die this way." 

Just as I was about to inhale, the current spewed me out from under the raft, head first, into the river.  Coughing and gagging, I sucked the air in greedily. Anyone who knows anything about rafting, knows that one must never, never go head first down a current.  I knew that, but had been drained of all energy and couldn't even attempt to turn. Thankfully, we were all wearing helmets because there were large rocks blocking my passage downstream.  I banged hard into several.  The current eventually slowed and several men were able to swim out and drag me to safety.  When I was able to stand up, I was crying hysterically and praising God for allowing me to live another day.  I learned then, that the group had been waiting for more than twenty minutes.

But where was my son?  I started to panic, imagining many different scenarios, all of them with tragic endings.  Panicking, I frantically yelled his name over and over.  

A good five minutes later he appeared, sitting bolt upright at the front of the raft, smiling to beat the band, paddling like the almost expert that he was.  The rafters and guides broke into spontaneous applause and shouted, "Bravo, bravo!" I had almost died a horrible death, and my son was being celebrated as a hero. The injustice of it all!  But, I was overjoyed and so thankful he was alive that I immediately forgave him his new-found celebrity!

There's a lesson to be learned somewhere in all of this.  Pay attention to that still, small voice.  Don't ignore it...not ever!  When it tells you to run, listen to it and high-tail it outta there!  

Later that evening, we went to an expensive restaurant to celebrate.  I'm sure I had never before and have never to this day, enjoyed food as much as I did that night. I've heard that this is quite common when one has had a near-death experience.

Justin said I was sighing a lot.   As he put it, 'happy to be alive, basically'.

SCORE!

I was a hick from a small town in Ontario.  My parents moved us to the "big" city when I was thirteen. I met Donya very soon after moving.  She was my best friend and I love her to this day.  Like most youngsters, we laughed a lot....the kind of side-splitting, choking, breathless, crying, nose-running laughter that so typifies the 'teen' years.  


Donya, ever the joker, taught me many games.  She would stop dead in her tracks in the middle of a busy, downtown sidewalk, gaze at the sky and point, a look of amazement on her face.  Inevitably, other pedestrians would stop and look up, searching the sky for whatever it was that had captured her attention.  Garbage cans were the focus of another one of her games...she would stop, look inside a can and gasp.  Drawn by her obvious bewilderment, curious folk would gather round the receptacle.  However, I'm quite sure that her preferred pastime was embarrassing her friend, the country bumpkin (aka me). Elevators were the favourite venue for her sadistic tricks...I was at her mercy, not able to escape her comments.  The doors would slide open, the elevator would be full of unsuspecting people, but I knew what to expect.  My heart would start racing as soon as  we entered and the doors closed.  She would start.  "Did you tell your parents about the pregnancy test?  Do they know yet?  What will you do with the baby?"  Or..."Next time you should buy condoms."  My face would turn beet-red and not knowing how to retort, I would burst helplessly into giggles. She, however, would remain stony-faced.  "Why are you laughing?  It's not funny to be so young and pregnant!  You have to tell them."  It was almost too much for my fifteen-year-old self to handle and when the elevators doors opened again, I would fly out, mortified!


Donya loved to play 'Score'.  "It's so cold in here," she would aver (in an uncomfortably warm room).  "No, it isn't....how can you say that?  I'm sweating," the innocent victim would reply.  "SCORE!"  Her index finger would trace one point in the air. Or, she would point to a very slight girl..."Look at that fat girl over there in the blue jacket!  She should lose some weight!"  The prey would retort, "She's not fat; she's so thin.  What are you talking about?"  "SCORE!"  She would chalk up another point.


I had two groups of friends at that time.  One group included Donya.  The other group included Chack. The two groups didn't know each other and therefore Chack didn't know Donya.  I shared my knowledge of the game of Score with Chack's group and we were off and running, scoring each other to our hearts' content.


Years passed and Donya moved to L.A.  Chack moved to Vancouver.  One day, Chack from Vancouver, happened to be in Toronto and was having dinner in a restaurant. A waiter approached the table behind hers and said, "Would you care for something to drink?"  She heard a woman say, "I'll have a daiquiri (daiQUIri ) please."  "I think you mean a daiquiri (DAIquiri)." he gently suggested.  Chack heard a triumphant, "SCORE!!" She turned in her chair and said to the woman, "Excuse me, but do you by any chance know Arlene G......?"  "Well, of course I do." retorted my friend Donya from California.

Hero

Jean-Pierre thinks they didn't know that we were together.  I'm not sure about that, but I am sure that even if they'd known, they wouldn't have cared.  We were on the metro heading for the airport and our flight home from Athens which was in a couple of hours. As is often the case there was standing-room only, so we were standing, our bags beside us, counting down the stops.

Three men were quite close to us, talking softly to each other.  One of the men started moving closer to me.  The other two followed suit.  I reasoned that they must have mistakenly thought that they would be exiting through the door behind me.  "They're getting too close and I feel very uncomfortable."  I whispered to J.P. "Well, move away from them!"  They moved even closer. I started to panic. At this point, my back was pressed against the rear door...they were breathing down my neck...there was no place to go!  Suddenly, the front doors slid open and they left.

I breathed a shaky sigh of relief and glanced down at my purse. To my horror, I noticed that the zipper was undone...my wallet was gone!  "They took my wallet!" Without hesitating, J.P. gave chase.  He was there one second and the next he was gone! What was I to do?  The number of thoughts that can flood the brain in a matter of seconds is incredible. Should I stay on the train with both of our heavy suitcases and our carry-ons?  I could wait for him at the airport stop.  But something might happen to him.  He might need my help.  Should I try to take everything and get off?  Would I have enough time? No, that would be impossible.  I wouldn't be able to manage that before the doors closed. I could take my bags (they were closer to me) and hope that we could somehow retrieve the other ones. Someone might steal his bags....but, there are so many people in this car and they all heard my shout and probably understood what had happened, so no-one would have the nerve to steal them, would they? Should I stay on...should I get off? Vacillating.  Quick, decide...the door is going to close!

I grabbed my suitcase and my carry-on and ran after J.P. who had disappeared around a corner.  I followed.  When I rounded the corner, the thieves were already on their way up the escalator.  I witnessed J.P. tackle the thief on the lowest stair. The crook was, at that moment rifling through my wallet.  He grunted in surprise and dropped the goods!  J.P. quickly scooped them up.  Seeing that my chivalrous husband had saved the day, I ran back to the train....amazingly only a few seconds had passed and the doors were still open!  Alas, as soon as I reached the train, they closed with a decisive whoosh, in my face.  I pounded on the doors...I can imagine how upset I looked.  "Open the door!  Open the door!"  The passengers could do nothing but look at me helplessly...and after a few seconds, the train glided away with J.P.'s bags inside.

It's probably very obvious that I'm not great in an emergency, but thankfully J.P. is better. "What can we do??!!"  He suggested that we report the 'event'.  Since I speak a bit (a very little bit) of Greek, it was decided that I would go upstairs to make a report and he would stay with my luggage.  It took forever, or so it seemed, to find someone who worked there.  I ran to get a police officer, who appeared with another man. They both asked me where my husband was (I still don't know why that would be their first question).  I explained where he was waiting and the officer left to find him. The other man beckoned me to follow him and led me to a small office.  When we got there the phone was ringing.  He answered it and said, "Yes, yes.  Oh, that's good." He hung up and said, "They have your bag at the next stop."  Hallelujah!  Some kind soul had taken the time to rescue our bags.

I always knew what a great, sweet, wonderful, intelligent guy my husband was, but I didn't know that there lurked within him, a HERO!


   

Can You Feel It?

"Does the spaghetti have fried onions in it?  I can't eat onions....they upset my stomach."

"Me, too!" agreed our very young, Spanish waiter.  We later learned that he was 23. "I can't eat everything like I used to be able to because I have a hiatal hernia.  They did many, many tests."  He made a motion that suggested a tube being inserted into his throat, and then did the same indicating his behind.  We were taken aback by his frankness.  "I have a lot of diarrhea and I vomit a lot," he shared.

Yikes and yikes again!  

J.P. caught my eye and we both tried our best not to laugh. He gathered his wits, cleared his throat and remarked,  "Have you ever been tested for H-Pylori? Sometimes you can have terrible acid and it's caused by a bacteria called H-Pylori. They can do a blood test and if you have it, it's easy to get rid of."

"Yes, I had that.  They tested my kaka for it."  (This was unfortunately revealed to us as we were contemplating a spaghetti and meatballs [albondigas] dinner.)  "They checked for it but the kaka was negative."  I almost choked at that comment. It was just too much!

The young camarero candidly admitted that he was a hypochondriac and then left to serve several tables he'd neglected while he had been imparting this fascinating information to us.  We were convulsed with laughter, and desperately tried to stifle our guffaws.

After several minutes our now intimate friend returned to take our order. Suddenly he raised his left arm and said to J.P., "Touch here...put your hand here."  He indicated a spot just below his armpit and slightly to the right.  J.P. was caught off guard and couldn't think of a way out.  He did as commanded.  He gently touched the 'spot' but the pressure was not to our friend's liking.  With his own hand covering J.P.'s too tentative hand, he held it firmly in place and shook his upper torso violently from side to side. It might have been my imagination, but I was certain that I heard it!  "Can you feel it?  The water?  I can't drink water because that's what happens."  Sure enough, J.P. felt a pocket of liquid sloshing around under the poor guy's arm.  

Believe me when I say that we will never look at a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in the same way again!

Ah, France

Foot meets uneven paving stone....falling forward, arms flailing, reaching for something to cling to, meeting thin air instead.  Stumbling--slow-motion.  Time stops. The sidewalk beckons...getting closer to my face, with each step.  Maybe I won't fall?  But, the forward momentum is too great.  I'm unable to slow down and certainly not able to stop! Hand and knee smack the pavement with a nauseating jolt.  I'm stunned.  What happened? Strong hands reach down to lift me up.  I try not to cry from the pain and the shock, but I know that my face must be red from the effort and my knee must be a bloody mess.  I accept, with a tremulous smile, the help offered.  Such a handsome young man and his very attractive father.  At any other time, I might make conversation, but a shaky "Merci", is all I can manage.

"Ca va, madame?  Est-ce que vous pouvez marcher?" (Are you okay, madam?  Can you walk?)  "Oui, merci beaucoup."


I struggle to walk normally as I bite back the tears.  Images of my fall, as witnessed by the two very attractive men who had been walking behind me, flash through my mind.  How clumsy it was; how embarrassed I am.  A French woman would have done it gracefully. She would have seemed to glide, to float. I need to sit down.  Disoriented. Falling in Paris was not on my list of things to do. Where is the restaurant the lady at the consulate had suggested? Limping down the street on shaky legs, desperately needing a place to check out my injury and to sit, I see the sign at last. I have an hour to kill-if it doesn't kill me first-before my important interview with the Canadian Consulate representative at two o'clock.


A cleaner points me toward the WC where I inspect my knee.  Surprisingly, there's no blood.  Wetting some paper towels with cold water, I hold it against the wounded joint for several minutes.  That done, I find the cafeteria where a waitress leads me to a free table. I sit down heavily and try to stop shaking.  A glass of wine...that'll help! Wine and something to eat.  I order.  The maitre d' brings me a small carafe of vin de table, pours a glass and leaves me to wait for my lunch. I pick up the glass, smell the wine and take a sip.  It sits on the back of my tongue as it warms to body temperature.  Feeling a bit better, I finally look around the room and notice that I'm surrounded by pilots and stewards.  I am after all, in the restaurant at Air France on Rue d'Invalides...an appropriate name considering what has just happened! The ripe, smoky wine starts to do its work. It slides seductively down my throat and goes STRAIGHT to my head!  Are all the men in Paris this handsome?  Um, good wine!  I smile at all of the nice men and drink more.  I hadn't noticed how silky the wine was the last time I swallowed!  If I were standing, I'd be weak in the knee, for sure.  Weak in the knee, that's a good one! As I give thought to the injured body part, it throbs painfully.  More wine! Much better!  Hello Paris!  Oh, how I love you and all of your handsome pilots. Paris, wine, handsome men. What more can one ask?


A plate of food has magically manifested and is sitting on the table in front of me.  When did it get there?  It seems I must have died and gone to heaven.  How else can the aroma that rises up to tickle my nose, be explained?  All at once, I'm ravenous.  I grab my knife and fork and attack the food!  The taste of chicken breast cooked to a juicy crispness and bathed in the creamy sweetness of Marsala wine and heavy cream is heightened by my mild state of intoxication.  It's to die for!  The baby carrots sauteed lightly in butter, garlic and parsley harmonize exquisitely with the chicken.  I am dimly aware of the babble of French around me.  I'm in France!  How fortunate I am.  A heady feeling.  The plate beckons me again.  What's this?  The plate is clean!  How can that be?  But, I'm still hungry. The maitre d' arrives as if on cue, with the salad.  Ah, the crisp greens, delicately coated in a tangy dijon vinagrette send my taste buds soaring!  It's almost too much for one day.  But wait. There's still the dessert.  Creme brulee. A thin caramelized crust hides the rich, silky custard. Sweet and slightly tart at the same time, the scent of lemon and cardamon.  The sweet dessert wine that the lovely maitre d' brings me, takes me to new heights and at the same time blurs my senses even more.  


What's this?  One of my nice, sweet pilots is putting on his attractive pilot's hat.  He's smiling at all the other nice pilots...oh, they're all putting on their adorable pilot hats. They're leaving. Goodbye, sweet ones!  Goodbye...goodbye!  I waggle my fingers coyly and smile as they head for the door.  My fingers are a bit numb, but I GOOD SO FEEL! Sheems itsh time for the interview!