Today the activity is a field trip to a gorge. Swimming appears to be the main focus of the trip. The river bed is mostly rocky, with some sand in some places. The cold water takes some getting used to and contrasts vividly with the sun-heated rocks that project above the waves.
I'm getting used to my surroundings when I see him strike off in an exploratory manner. I watch him and wonder if I'd be brave enough to follow his path. He's going slowly. Is that because of the rocks or because of him?
A little while later, I have my answer. I catch him up on the opposite shore, where the steep sides are covered in scree near the bottom. The scree sinks into grayish mud, which continues above where the scree ends. I make my way up there, and my feet sink in to the ankle. It'll wash off.
When his foot slides into the mud, he says, "Ew." I want to laugh at him, but I know it's mean, so I turn my face away and smile. I ask where he was planning to get to, and he points to a rock that juts out a little into the river.
I get there within two minutes and continue. As I make my way over a somewhat flatter area, another boy passes me in the opposite direction. He must have gone the other way. My confidence spikes. He must have crossed at the narrower section. If he did it, so can I.
I pass some slippery sections, which I navigate with relative ease. I wish he were watching me. I feel in tune with the air, with the water, with the plants. Nothing can stop me.
When I reach the crossing the other boy must have taken, it looks a little bit treacherous, but I decide to strike out for some rocks in the middle anyway. I underestimate the strength of the current. The water is cold and fast and tugs my skin and swimsuit like an angry thief. For a few seconds I'm pulling with all of my strength just to stay level with the place I left, and then I turn my face back to the bank and let myself be carried to a small protruding rock. I cling, sodden, shaking, my heartbeat racing, and I want to cry.
Slowly I turn, my eyes seeking the other members of the field trip. They are all oblivious. I yell out a name, then another, but they are lost on the wind. I pull myself out of the water. He has already turned back. I begin to retrace my steps with as much speed as I can in my state of slight shock.
My tears blend with the river water. My bare stomach is trembling, as are my lips. I'm sure I'm freezing cold, but all I can feel is fear. I reach the scree section. Stones tumble down into the water as I make my way down to the part where I came out. It seems like days ago.
He is almost at the small island two-thirds of the way back. I glance at him and then lower my head and begin sloshing through the water.
A few hundred yards from the island, I stop. Before me lies a stretch of water too deep to walk across. It looks calm, but I don't trust my judgement anymore. He's just crossed to the other side of the island. I call his name, once, twice, but he doesn't hear. We're the only two people from our trip still in the water.
I'm going to have to do this on my own. I pull my goggles over my eyes and lower myself into the water, aiming slightly upstream. To my surprise, I'm swimming in a straight line. I reach the island and want to collapse, but no -- not yet. There's still a little left.
But how little, and how easy it feels, and how my feet hurt when at last I lift them from the water and rest them on a rock! And how at home I feel, now, standing on a solid foundation, without water or mud or scree to shake me. I look around, drinking in the newly unfamiliar sight of the gorge from this angle, and now I give way to silent, wrenching sobs, because I have saved my own life from the effects of a mistake I made.
I make my way to my backpack. He is still in the water as I dry off. I walk back up to the parking lot without another glance at the others. I'm still in shock. Almost absently, I run my fingers over my left earring, then my right -- but the right is gone, ripped from my ear by the raging waves, a permanent reminder of my temporary foolishness. I gently rub the hole; it seems fine, without any blood or any other oddness. And besides, if there was anything wrong, someone would have said something.
My calves are burning. My hoodie is soaked. The sun is shining full on my body, but I'm cold. I could have died today, and no one else would have noticed until it was too late. My legs tremble, and I stop walking, bending over. I want to lie down and never get up again. I shudder, feeling again the water dragging at me, pulling, sucking my strength and my confidence downstream. I was so bold, so sure of myself, so fearless. Four words pop into my mind. They sum up my experience so well that I repeat them to myself until they start to lose their meaning.
I sit in the passenger seat of the van. As the wind blows my hair back from my face and tugs incessantly at my fingers which I dangle out the open window, I close my eyes and breathe in and out, in and out. I nearly died today. Only fools are unafraid.
Author's note: this actually happened to me on Sunday, July 5 at Quechee Gorge, Vermont. I've been writing this account ever since.
