So, there I was, realizing that a large raft, full of eight people, was sitting on top of me in the middle of a rapids. Actually, I don't remember it being all that distinct. I did realize where I was, and the fact that I needed to be elsewhere in a hurry. Either the boat moved or I did, or maybe a little of both. I popped up to the surface, and heard our guide calling to direct me. I followed the suggestion with alacrity. About the time that I got back to the boat, I realized that the middle finger of my left hand was really smarty. Not OMIGOD-I can't take it-I'm going to pass out pain, but definitely the kind that made me wonder how I was going to grab anything to pull myself back in.
Not to worry. The guide grabbed my life jacket, I kicked, and out I came. I immediately resolved to stay in the boat for the rest of the day. My hand still hurt a lot, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I had broken what my wife's cousin now refers to as my "communication finger." I continued to paddle as we went down the river, and at lunch, I got together with the trip leader and fashioned a splint out of tape and q-tips. It would do for the afternoon. The rest of the trip was a ball, and I was very happy to see that Diego was clearly enjoying himself a lot. I think that we won a new convert to the world of whitewater.
At the end of the day, we worked together to load the rafts on a trailer, and hiked up a hill to the pick-up location. There was cold beer and pop, and the cans made a lovely ice pack as we rode back to the company headquarters. I sat down with the trip leader and went through the ritual of filing an injury report as my companions changed into dry clothes...(more to follow...)
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