The most recent version of Arthur Brooks’ Office Hours_discusses running the bulls… _your bulls, specifically, ie, living a better life by taking measured risks.
As an example of a study that investigated risk-taking behavior, Brooks’ mentioned skydiving and white water rafting as examples.
It reminded me of the time I went white water rafting in college with my former roommate. He had been a guide on the Lehigh River in PA, and the guides were going on a trip to Canada to raft the Ottowa and Rouge Rivers. He suggested that I come along, with the stipulation that I come up and get my feet wet, literally and figuaratively, on the Lehigh for experience.
I readily agreed, and visited him twice in Jim Thorpe for a couple of days of rafting, once after a dam release, and another time later in the summer for a sleepier version of the river. It was fun and easy; we paddled down the river in a two-man raft, helping kids who got stuck and offering encouragement to those who needed it.
The Ottowa, however, was a different experience. Someone described the river as a series of large lakes connected to each other. Big lakes. The holes, such as they’re known, were really big. Our first day featured the fearless crew floating down the river in six- or eight-man rafts (I don’t remember which). They were entirely too small for this adventure.
Going into the first hole, I vaguely recall seeing someone’s helmet coming at my face before I was thrown in the water. I came up to the surface still holding my paddle in my hand, as the owner had warned all of us not to lose them. I also saw one floating before me, and I grabbed it and made my way for the raft. The agitation of the water created a layer of sudsy foam, upon which a lifejacket will not float. I swam over and was hoisted out of the water. One of the owners complimented me for keeping both my paddle and for grabbing another one. Score some points for the n00b!
While that was an inauspicious start to the journey, the remaining holes proved more navigable until we reached the Colisseum, known for its entertainment value to those shorebound gawkers who watched more reckless souls cast their fates into a giant washing machine.
Our group paddled into the hole, and at some point, the raft folded in half bow to stern, jettisoning everyone on board save for me (lucky!) and the owner. After a Tom-Hanks-storming-the-beach-at-Normandy moment of echoey, swirling consciousness, I heard the owner, the only other man left in our boat, yelling my name over and over again until I oriented myself to his cries, follwed by an invective to paddle. And so paddle I did. He and I made it out of the hole and onto shore while the rest of the crew was rescued. There were rescue jetskis, to give you some sense of the seriousness of this hole.
One of the guides, “Hairman,” who went over the side, described being dragged along the river bed by the current. He was happily retrieved alive and well, but utterly rattled by the experience.
On our second day, we comandeered much larger rafts from the operators of the river adventure, and with sound planning and even some motivational speaking (“visualize success!” one guide shouted as we dipped once again into the Colliseum), made it out without any men (or women) overboard.
Hairman watched from the shore.
We slept for a week under the stars. My roomate and I were out laying on the ground one night, our last before heading back to an apartment outside of Quebec, and traced satellites in the dark sky. There was no light pollution to block our celestial view.
Upon returning home, that first night, I went to bed in my childhood bedroom, and for the first time in my life, I felt hemmed in, contained in a too-small, too quiet, climate-controlled box.
I had taken a significant risk, and lived to tell the tale. I even enjoyed a brief moment as a bad-ass who not only kept his paddle, but collected that of another. I stuck it out after the first day and dropped into the Coliseum once again; I faced my fears. I in turn treated the Rouge like the mini-river it was in comparison to the Ottowa: a place to splash and play, and try silly stunts.
That first night at home, I got out of bed, grabbed some blankets, and slept in the back porch of my parents’ house, under the skylights, the stars and the moon illuminating the back of the house. I was still me, but different.
I guess I ran the bulls.
