At 6:00 a.m. on Saturday morning there are only two types of people wandering around Bowdoin's campus: those shuffling toward their rooms as quickly as possible, performing a covert walk-of-shame, and those carrying a paddle and wetsuit eagerly migrating towards the Schwartz Outdoor Leadership Center.
Last Saturday, I was among the latter group. Along with 22 other ultra-skilled paddlers, I headed to New Hampshire for two days of whitewater canoeing and kayaking. Well, at least a few people were ultra-skilled. The rest of us were beginners who had just completed a two-week class that consisted of multiple pool sessions. But on Saturday, it was time for the real thing.
We arrived at the Errol River with just enough time to complete one "run" before lunch. Food is always a top concern for me on Bowdoin Outing Club (BOC) trips, so I had to make sure that all the plans were in order for a proper meal before I could concentrate on anything else. After being reassured that a shuttle system had been arranged to bring food to our next campsite, I shifted my focus to the river. It didn't seem so bad: wide, fairly smooth water, and surprisingly warm.
Piece of cake.
The group congregated briefly on land to exchange introductions and hear a safety talk. A noticeable rift developed between the canoeists and kayakers; like the Sharks and the Jets of West Side Story, we just didn't quite understand each other's worlds. Luckily, a game of kickball (in which the canoeists proved victorious) and an intense round of "chubby bunny" later that evening dispelled all tension.
After boarding my canoe with my paddling partner, Peter Beebe '06, and practicing our newly-mastered strokes one last time, we were ready for the rapids.
We caravaned down river to catch up with the kayakers and test our ferrying skills. Then things got exciting.
The boat gained speed with the quickening current. I remained calm as we coasted along and tried to remember all the lessons we learned about balance, poise, and strength back in the pool. I thought I maintained my cool pretty well.
Peter later informed me I was screaming the whole time. Inside I was cool though, which is all that matters.
I was in the bow, scouting for obstacles and shouting back to Peter about what I saw. Apparently, I learned that just yelling "ROCK!" is not quite descriptive enough. We smacked right into the gargantuan piece of granite, spun in a graceful circle and sped onward.
Water from the raging waves spilled into the boat and occasionally blurred my vision, yet Peter and I persevered, earnestly plunging our paddles into the fierce river with hopes of deliverance.
Finally, we reached the eddy where our instructors awaited. As we proudly slid in, I made sure to lean with the boat, to become one with the boat.
Unfortunately, in my triumph I leaned a little too far and capsized the canoe in the calm pool.
As I emerged to the sound of laughter instead of the applause I was expecting, I had to smile at the irony of the situation: we made it through the treacherous rapids with style and flair only to be reminded of the river's ultimate power once we had reached safety.
Yes, boating those mighty class-two rapids can certainly put life into perspective.