THE RAFTING ADWENTURE (yes, with a W)

We got the idea, a flash of brilliance really, watching sun seekers on the Elbow River effortlessly glide downstream.  The people on the rafts looked so…relaxed.  In a sudden flash of glee, Bailey’s pupils widened.

“I want to do THAT. I want to go rafting.”

First, I panicked.  Next, I prioritized.

Most important, the Rafting Outfit! I would need to go shopping for a rafting outfit and some fabulous rafting shoes! Shhh. My husband must not know about this, as he was not happy with my costly chess playing outfit nor the rope skipping or beer drinking outfits. He was a tad outraged at my nudist beach outfits (He says people do not wear clothes there.) He had not considered that I needed to be dressed in style upon my ENTRY and DEPARTURE.  They were to and fro outfits for the nudist beach (solid arguments!).  Not sure if he was serious but he gifted me with a slutty French Maid costume, which he smugly called “the cleaning outfit.” As if!!! (The black and white number was clearly not Consuela’s size!)

             I was jolted back to the task at hand by a familiar voice.

“Do we even HAVE a raft?” interjected Whitney, and as if to stress the importance of the water vessel, disconnected her iPod lifeline from her left ear. 

            I was beaming; my excellent parenting skills were paying off. My beautiful daughter came up with a constructive idea!

Up to now, the word “raft” was not a part of my current vocabulary. Sure, my basic interpersonal communication skills bridged me over understanding sporty words like boat, life jackets, and fore; however, technically I resembled more of a fashion-conscious Sporty Spice. At leastraft did not contain any w’s, the prickly, hard-for-me-to-pronounce letter.  I seemed to lose more and more respect having to call my daughter to get in my vhite wan and vait. Getting a raft would surely redeem me in the eyes of my teenage, take after her father, grammar Nazi.

Shopping for my rafting necessities quickly turned into disappointment.  I was not aware that Canadian Tire does not carry any sound four to six inch rafting stilettos and the life jacket (in a neon orange color) bulks up even the slimmest body shape.  I decided to go with my olive green Arnold Churgin wedges and a bosom enhancing yoga outfit all while trying to avoid the outdated matchy-matchy concept.  My niece Bailey (unburdened with the stress brought on by parenting a teenager with no fashion sense) took care of the raft and the things you need to operate it. She did not seem to mind the lack of rafting accessories as her obvious matching outfit would support.

Our starting point on highway 22X was easy to find (not to mention the convenience of roadside parking with no parking meters and frumpy meter maids). Bailey unloaded the inflatable raft box depicting a very happy family of four enjoying a rafting experience.  The expressions on their tiny faces were reminiscent of an awkward family reunion and for a second, I was turned off.  I had a quick sip of my double double Tim’s (Good Mooooooning Tim Hoooooordons) enhanced by a tiny little shot of Grand Marnier (not provided by Timmy’s), which quickly got me past that.  In the meantime, Bailey began to inflate the boat while Whitney got to work chewing 27 pieces of Dentyne Spearmint gum at once, all while supervising Bailey. (I could clearly see the budding corporate president in my clone of a daughter).

So now we had: an inflated raft, four plastic rowing thingies, life jackets (as seen on What Not To Wear), Arnold Churgin olive green rafting wedges (me), and extremely high expectations.

We placed the raft in the water at a gentle bend under the bridge and climbed aboard. I could already feel the tan cropping up on my raft-sprawled body about to get gently soothed by the lazy river. For the next five minutes, it was the perfect summer. Our eyes glistened, bodies relaxed, oblivious (and blissfully ignorant) to what lay around the next bend.

Pfffffff!  For the first time in my life I wished the sound I had heard was a result of someone expelling mighty gas.

It may have been the fact that none of us girls knew how to row, it may have been the rocks and driftwood sticking out of the enraged mountain river, and it may have just been a bad luck. To my horror, my Arnold Churgin rafting footwear could be seen as it bobbed down the river and the punctured raft was left to die on the rocky island in the middle.

I waved my shoes good bye (truth be told I think I shed a tear) and quickly scanned where we had been marooned. Nobody hurt, boat now dead. Dense forest around us; wild river furious with rapids in front of us. Freakish sound coming from the other side across the river. Mooo. Mooo. MOOOOO!

They were evil creatures; no purple Swiss chocolate Milka cows, and they were…looking at us!

Where the hell did I put my Ativan? No time for self pity. I busied myself imagining an appropriate dying outfit to go with the white satiny coffin lining my loving husband would  choose when I realized in horror: He’s going to put me in that horrible French maid outfit!

My teenager and Bailey, unphazed by the events (and my sudden hyperventilation episode), were discussing the possibility of patching up the raft hole with Whitney’s giant gum gob.  For a brief moment I found myself thinking: that might actually work, we’re saved!

Reality set in and my temples throbbed with panic. My girls! My babies! My shoes! I could feel the adrenalin rushing into my fingers forcing them to do what I have trained them to do in a moment of panic: Dial nine one one!

I knew they would save us: I often watch police shows where the buff baby blue eyed firefighters lift survivors in their muscled embraces gently up the velvety ladder and place them on the silk cushions inside the state-of the-art helicopters. To prevent shock setting in, a chiseled-faced stand-by EMS/masseuse wraps the victim in a herbal slimming body wrap, followed by some champagne and strawberries (I might be getting the images mixed up with some other TV shows but whatever).

 “911. What is your emergency?”

“Our wessel is vashed ashore and ve are marooned!”

Did I switch the v and w again?

I attempted to muffle the background shrieks of“Mom! You are NOT calling nine one one!” from my teenager’s mouth with my French manicured hand. Must she always interrupt?

“SHADDUP and vait by the boat.”I hissed as politely as my hysteria would allow.

The nice police officer on the other end of the line inquired whether I required police, fire or ambulance. I didn’t realize there were choices. Not wanting to sound overly demanding, I replied meekly:

„I would like one helicopter, please.“

„Maa’m. What is your emergency?“ (OMG! Do I sound like Maa’m to you? Perhaps someone is in need of a little crash course in ettiquete Sir!)

 I described our unfortunate situation to the information-taker on the other end supporting the events with incredible details, including the evil cows (they started closing in on us mooing uncontrollably), the impenetrably dense forest (most likely overgrown by poisonous ivy, riddled with blood thirsty bears and black widows) and facing the raging killer river (not ruling out the possibility of a piranha infestation).

“Maa’m?”

Ok, clearly, this person must be some kind of a secretary.

“Yes?”

“How far are you off the highway?”

“Officer, I von’t lie to you. I can’t quite make out the license plates of the passing vehicles…. vait a second…a nice young gentlemen is just gesturing at me…. he is making some kind of a rescue sign with his thumb and pointer on his forehead…oh, to hell with you!!! Oh sorry, not you officer, of course…”

My police contact was pretty nosy and kept on asking unrelated questions (Is anyone hurt? Is anyone in danger?).I finally figured out that I must answer yes to one of his questions to be eligible for my helicopter, so in response toAre you in the water or on the shore? I tried to push my daughter into the river but she would not budge. And I could not lie (shoplift… maybe…but no lies).

The heartless 911 helper then recommended we walk back to the highway through the forest. (Did I mention I lost my shoes? Do these emergency operators even know the cost of pedicures nowadays?) The obvious rookie recommended we stay in a group and walk.

We walked. Behind the dark shrubs guarding the typical mountain forest, a prickly, unkempt path unraveled. The five hundred meters felt like a Siberian death march. I almost died that day. Had the forest been any denser, it could have landed a job at the 911-call centre.

“You know, Mom, you did not need to call nine one one. It was not an emergency. You are such a drama queen,”uttered my smartass daughter. Clearly, my husband’s genetic pool had to show somewhere. I bravely tried to silence my moans of pain.  

Had I not called the police who would? Interesting, how the limelight must always be on her.

And was it or was it not an emergency? Who is to say? The forest is a perfect hiding place for any America’s Most Wanted fugitive. How else did this path get here, I was forced to ask?

Finally warm and dry in our comfortable vehicle after ten gruesome minutes of walking, Whitney is happily reunited with her iPod and stops her rude remarks. Bailey suggests a trip to a nearby ice-cream shop (she wasn’t stressed or worried.noo…).

I have sworn the girls to secrecy. No one must know about our graceless adventure. Of course, the 17 text messages (including one to my third cousin in Mumbai) sent under duress, count purely as emergency measures and back-up.

The next time someone takes me on water, their raft better be spelled