I wrote about River Wild (2023) which reminded me of a story about myself. Enjoy.

It was the mid 2000s and the Stanko family was on a family vacation. My parents organized a grand two week extravaganza visiting various national parks. In hindsight, I it was a great idea for a vacation. It must have taken a shit ton of work to plan, and schlepping four kids across the desert in a rental minivan is nightmare fuel.

I wish I appreciated the vacation then. If you were to ask my family how it was to hang out with me in the pre-teen years, I think they’d say they’d rather have dinner with the devil.

So with that context, let’s get to the crux of the issue. The white water rafting adventure on the Colorado River.

The Stanko clan arrives at the bank of the river and vibes are rather high. I am keeping my complaining to a minimum. We all get donned in our life jackets and water gear. Everyone is excited when the tour guide in charge of the boat explains that swimming in the river is encouraged when the water is calm.

We have to talk about this tour guide. Picture a 20 year old who belongs in Point Break. He has the shades. He has a cut-off tee shirt. He has the character of someone who is vibing for the summer and unsure of wherever his next adventure will be. He is the ultimate bros bro. This tour guide loved IPAs before they were big.

As we push off the shore and begin our journey down the Colorado River, this tour guide begins to explain exactly what we are going to do. We will be bouncing on waves and rocks, working with the current and navigating our wee-little raft to our final destination down the river.

As we are learning what each position on the raft is in charge of, the tour guide notes that the front of the vessel gets beaten up the most. It is where the water bashes you, and the bumps are reminiscent (though multiplied) of being in the backseat of a classic yellow school bus.

My sister Wendy is stationed in the front, but after hearing these ominous warnings, she no longer wanted the front row seat. Can you guess who raised their hand and volunteered to be in the line of fire? 

If you guessed me, the invincible pre-teen who thinks he is too cool to adhere to bright red flashing warning signs, then you would be absolutely correct!

So we begin this tour down the Colorado River, and it’s fucking blast. We are bouncing up and down. Nothing is too dangerous. My dad fell out of the raft once, but it wasn’t a super big deal. The water isn’t too deep and its temperature could be described as comfortable.

So with the river carrying all the positive vibes at a blistering pace, we know it’s time to bring the mood down.

Our tour guide notes that we are approaching the end of our ride, but before we can dock and call ourselves outdoor enthusiasts, we must pass through a passage known as The Jaws Of Death.

The Jaws Of Death. What an outstanding name. An absolutely perfect way to sell the climax of the white water rafter ride. 

The tour guide is telling this grand fictitious tale explaining how these two massive rocks create a funnel of rapid activity. It is the most dangerous part of our trip, and he makes no bones about it. He is giving us all these warnings, making sure that everyone holds on, especially those in the front. We have to keep our paddles out of the water until instructed otherwise, and we can’t move on the raft under any conditions.

With all these instructions As we are approaching the rip-roaring terrifying lips of The Jaws Of Death, our tour guide mentions the one last ingredient in his story.

In order to pass through The Jaws Of Death, one must be “pure of heart.” One must be honest, kind, and knightly. One must be willing to put others first and be a good teammate when times call for it.

Massive credit to this random tour guide because he sold The Jaws Of Death hard. Real hard.

We took a turn down on the Colorado River and suddenly we came face-to-face with it. We have eyes on The Jaws Of Death. The speed of the sturdy flotation device is increasing and the voice of our tour guide is booming. The sounds of the waves crashing against the vampire fang rocks is deafening. The adrenaline is pumping and pulses are pounding.

“BRACE YOURSELF! HOLD ON!” screams the tour guide. His forearms moving back and forth faster than a hot woman fanning herself in a colonial era church. Everyone is wrapped in attention, praying for safety, waiting for what to do next. Whatever that may be.

We are racing now. Water is careening into the raft as we are being battered between smaller rapids. This extreme version of bumper cars is getting hairier at an expedient rate. The gliding floor beneath our feet is pulsating like it’s made of bubble wrap constantly being inflated and popped.

One last warning. “HERE WE GO!”

I take a look at our tour guide and I see him frankly steering the raft as best he can. He and mother nature are in a battle, and one shouldn’t raise hands against the wooded maiden.

There is a point in our descension to madness where the funnel becomes thinnest. Precision is necessary. One degree off either way could lead to catastrophic consequences.

The raft becomes engulfed in white foam as walls of liquid are being formulated around us. Rocks peer through the sheen of water, poking sharp spears of danger like hands grasping out of a moldy jail cell. 

Sitting in the front seat, I am seeing it all. I am seeing all the rocks our tour guide is deftly navigating us around. I am also seeing the one giant rock he can’t possibly avoid. 

It all happened real fast. It’s cliche, but it’s true. The tour guide tries to get the raft to do a 90 degree swing. He wants to get it perfectly perpendicular because he needs to slide through the final stage. The final level. The Jaws Of Death.

The whole journey has led to this moment. 

I heard “HOLD ON!” from somewhere behind me, but it’s too late.

The raft hits a rock, and hits it hard. The front right of the boat makes direct contact. There is a thud, and I am airborne. 

Beneath me are rocks. I see lots of water, and lots of rocks. 

Yup, I am flying.

Splashdown. I land in the middle of the white water rapids, and it’s exactly like all the media depicts it. There is a moment of frantic panic and a flailing of arms. I realize that I can’t stand in this water so I begin treading water. I am gathering my surroundings. No joke, the rapids are scary when they are happening all around you.

I spin around in a circle until I see the raft. It is maybe 20 feet away, and my first thought was how far did I freaking fly?

I begin working my way back towards the boat, and the current which is gently pushing me downstream is kindly dragging me away from the rocks. So that’s a silver lining. I am trying to line up my path back to the raft, but I can’t help but notice a strange visual on the raft.

I see the raft ring leader sitting atop his perch with a petrified look on his face. Can you imagine what he was thinking? Did I just kill a child? Good lord I am going to lose my job. I am so dead. 

I see my mother, extending her oar into the water for me to grab onto once I get close. I see her imploring me to swim. She is being a good mom, looking out for her cub.

I see my father, taking a picture of me. Yup. My dad is not worried about my well being at all. He is capturing this moment, getting it all on a waterproof camera. He is snapping away with the biggest smile on his face.

I didn’t get a chance to see what my sisters were doing, but I can imagine that my sister with whom I swapped seats with was partly terrified and partly relieved. 

I get my way back to the raft after a few minutes of swimming through some white water rapids. Think about that sentence. I was thrown out of a raft (moving at high speed) into a very choppy and lively section of the Colorado River. I swam through some rapids and climbed back into this raft like I was an action hero evading enemy gunfire.

It is a hell of a story. It is a foundational memory. While I can say that I survived a Deliverance and River Wild-esq horror show, there is something I will never be able to live down.

I am not pure of heart. The Jaws Of Death plugged me from the raft and chewed me up. Perhaps I can take some solace on the fact that I survived to tell the tale, but living with the shame of a Scarlet Letter of decency will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Well, maybe I am not as haunted as the tour guide who saw one of his passengers turn into Superman. He might be mentally scarred a bit as well.

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