Alan C. Fox

See me in the photo?  Perhaps you need a hint?  There’s the captain of the raft.  She’s wearing the blue helmet, paddle in hand.  And there’s Sprite, yellow helmet on the right.  Smiling.

Me?  I’m trapped beneath a red helmet, front left.  Most of me is under water.  I’m not smiling.  I’m freezing.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  After all, we were in Queenstown, New Zealand, home of outdoor adventure.  And even on a honeymoon those warm comfy hotel rooms with stunning lake views can become so tedious.

We called “Scary White Water Rafters” to arrange an outdoor excursion for my 77^th birthday.

When we arrived at the “Scary” office we were told that the river trip we planned to take was cancelled.  But we could transfer to the “more challenging” river trip.

“Sure,” I said.  Because that’s what a real man does, right?
I had been white water rafting years before, and assured Sprite that it would be perfectly safe and fun.  She looked at me sideways as she read the brochure description:  “Begin with an unforgettable bus trip into Skippers Canyon, famous for its exciting cliff edges.”   Right.  We both love exciting cliff edges.  NOT.  Then, “The adrenaline pumps as you paddle Aftershock, Squeeze, Toilet, Pinball, Jaws, and Oh Sh*t, to name a few.”

The most dangerous white water rapids are rated 5 and 6.  These rapids were rated 4 and 5.  “Oh Sh*t” is right.  We left a perfectly pleasant hotel room at 7:30 am to risk both our comfort and our lives.

Yes, the cliff edges were exciting. For forty-five minutes our van careened down a gravel road with the driver gossiping all the way. I did not look out the window.   I smiled at Sprite to reassure her while our guide read excerpts from the release we had to sign.  Basically, if we froze, broke a leg, or died, “too bad and Happy Birthday!”

When we arrived at the Shotover River (Yup) we were led to dressing rooms where we discarded our warm, dry clothing for dripping wet suits, frigid rubber shoes, and rigid plastic helmets.

As we dragged our rafts into the surging water, Sally, our boatperson, plied us with instructions, spiced with scary stories about previous patrons who didn’t pay attention and ended up falling out of the raft and bouncing along the rocks.

I was handed a wooden paddle.  I had planned to sit in the middle of the raft next to Sprite, to keep her safe, but Sally assigned another man and me a job. We were to be “the motor” and sit in front, where it’s more dangerous.  The women sat behind us, Sally in the back.  “I’m the steering,” she said.

My boots soon filled with water.  When I broke my paddle on a rock Sally happily handed me a replacement. Drat!  My legs cramped.  In the middle of “Squeeze” my life jacket popped up around my neck and tried to strangle me.

And the photo?  That was at the very end of our out-of-room experience, after we bumped through a dark river tunnel blasted by gold miners a hundred years before.  Sally warned us, “At the end of this tunnel is “Oh Sh*t,” and when I say ‘DOWN’ go all the way down in the raft, FAST.  You will be underwater, but hopefully you won’t fall out of the raft.”

An hour later, back in our hotel room, Sprite beat me to the hot shower.  Later as we burrowed under our comforter we agreed that our white water rafting fling had been scary, but wonderful.

Next year on my birthday I think I’ll sign up for something more exciting, like wrestling a grizzly bear while sky diving.

Alan

On the day of our New Zealand hike we were late to meet our guide because Sprite volunteered to go back and retrieve the small folding chair I had left in our room.

The drill-sergeant-like woman who leaped out of the van reminded me of a Brunnhilde, so I called her “B”.

She took one look at me and said, “You’re three minutes late.  We have a five-mile hike.  It’s mostly uphill.”  I thought our travel agent had arranged a two-mile hike, already pushing my limit, but I wanted to demonstrate my vigor to Sprite.  And to myself.  Well, mostly to Sprite.

B pointed at the folding stool that dangled from my hand.  “You’re not going to carry that, are you?”  This was not a question.  Before I could mention my bad back she said, “It will break your stride.”

My stride.  Yes, I was really concerned about breaking my stride.

I knew I was in trouble when B jogged beside the car on our drive to the trailhead.  “To warm up,” she said.  Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.

When we arrived I pointed to something that looked like ski poles in the back of the van. B regarded me disapprovingly. I imagined she was thinking, “Those are sissy sticks.”  What she actually said was, “It’s five miles, mostly uphill.  Carrying anything will slow us down.”  I thought that by her standards just carrying myself would slow us down.

Sprite instantly established a bond with B.  They were both sprinters on their high school track teams. I wanted to join in their camaraderie and feebly offered, “I was president of my high school chess club.” That didn’t have the desired impact, so I added, hopefully, “And captain of the debate team.”

B set a brisk pace.  Sprite walked behind me.  She knew that, if I walked in back, the two sprinters would finish our hike four miles ahead of me.

Not too long into our ordeal – I mean our stroll — Sprite said, “Alan, would you like some water?”

Good call, Sprite.  “Yes, I would.”

Sprite set up my stride-breaking stool.  I sat on it.  B jogged in place.

After we resumed our race, I mean our walk, Sprite asked how far we had gone.

“One mile,” B said.  “Uphill starts in two hundred meters.”

“Why don’t we turn around now?”  Sprite suggested. “I’m getting a little tired, and I’m looking forward to our boat ride.  What do you think, Alan?”  I thought that Sprite was not really tired.  She just wanted to keep her husband alive for more than two weeks of marriage.

“That would be perfect,” I said.  “Let’s turn back and go fishing.”  At that point I would have preferred dental surgery to running behind Brunnhilde for five miles, even supported by my sissy sticks.

When we reached our forty-two foot fishing boat, B did not take a rope in her teeth to pull us.  No, she switched from hike sprinter to fishing guide, and was quite pleasant and helpful.  I actually liked her.

That day I discovered I can hike two miles quickly.  I also completed my personal exercise pledge for the rest of the year.

I don’t know if Sprite was impressed.  But she saved my life, so I’m quite impressed with her.

Alan

I only write to meet a deadline.  No deadline, no writing.

Of course, the deadline for my writing this blog is self-imposed, and for more than three years I have met every weekly “deadline,” including emailing one blog to my assistant on a Monday at 10:45 pm so that she could post it for Tuesday morning delivery.

I was urged by Nancy, my friend and editor, to “get ahead” by writing three or four blogs before I left on vacation last Monday.  She also suggested that it would be alright if I took a “vacation” from writing during my honeymoon.  “People will understand.”

Thanks, Nancy, but I’m remembering my brief “neat desk” policy.

My desk has always been cluttered.  Books, file folders, loose papers, and pens are strewn everywhere.  Not a pretty picture.  Early in my career I found a check for a rather large amount that had gotten lost for three months under all the rubble.

To bring order to that chaos, I decided to adopt a “neat desk” policy and clear everything off my desk before I left each day.  I succeeded for nine months. Then one evening as I was leaving I stared at three pieces of paper that I hadn’t bothered to put away yet and I had the following dialogue with myself.

“If you don’t pick up those three pieces of paper your ‘clean desk’ experiment will be finished and everything will revert back to the way it was before.”

“But I don’t want to pick them up.”

“Then it’s over.  The clutter will return.”

“I don’t care.”

“But . . . “

I didn’t, and my desk has been a mess ever since.

So, Nancy, based on that experience I’m afraid that if I don’t write my blog every single week, it will be over.  It would be too easy for me to skip one week, then the next, then find a reason why I don’t ever have to resume.  This is a part of my ongoing internal battle between productivity and lethargy.

So “hello” from our honeymoon. We are currently in Fiji.  It’s warm.  My sunburn from our kayak expedition a few days ago is receding.  Sprite and I are enjoying the food, the tropical scenery, and each other’s company.

Habits.  Like them or not, we each are doomed to live with our own.

Now I’m off to the dining room.  I may leave papers on my desk.  Occasionally I miss a minor business deadline.  But I’m never late for dinner. And I’ve yet to miss a blog.

Alan