Do Something Different

Too many summers have gone by with me making fun, summertime plans in my head and then not going through with them and getting to September having to admit to everyone who asks that I did nothing but work all summer long.


Determined not to let another summer slip by without trying something I’d never done before, I made plans with Robert to go rafting on the Delaware River.

We set off on what was probably the most beautiful morning of the summer so far.

Already an amazing day, I thought.

We took the scenic route through pretty, small towns built long before the postmodern highways and strip malls meant to accommodate an ever-growing and rushed population.

We reached our destination where there are two rafting locations, one on the Jersey side of the river and one on the Pennsylvania side.

The two sides have something of a Hatfield-McCoy thing going on.

The Jersey side is run by a guy known as the hot dog man. The Pennsylvania side is run by a guy who makes fun of the hot dog man.

We chose the Pennsylvania side.

Our side felt like something out of a teen summer camp movie. Damp …green …run by bored, sun-addled teenagers and wild-eyed, white-haired men who looked like their other job was model for novelty moonshine labels.

We acquired our life vests and paddles and stood on line for the school bus that would take us up the river to begin our solo trip back down.

The line for people going tubing was far longer than the line for rafters and kayakers.

I didn’t get it. Tubing didn’t seem like the way to go at all. With a raft, Robert and I would have space to stretch out, room for our backpack filled with goodies and a more luxurious way to travel in general.

Bus after bus came for the tubers and eventually some of the kayakers on our line started to get cranky so they let the rafters and kayakers on a bus with the tubers and we finally got on our way.

The bus driver, who must work as a Santa Claus in the winter, barked at the rafters and kayakers to get way in the back. He must’ve felt some sense of allegiance to his tubers who rightfully were meant to have the bus to themselves.

A Russian couple sat across from us, the ample woman in a leopard bikini and black water shoes, her husband tall and lanky and ready for adventure.

Santa floored it up a windy, narrow path that doubles as a road and was fond of slamming the brakes at the last minute to avoid colliding with oncoming traffic.

As we slid to the left then slid to the right, the Russian woman managed to ask if we’d ever been kayaking before.

We’re going rafting, I told her.

She seemed briefly horrified by this news. Then amused.

I wondered why we’d chosen rafting and whether we’d put enough thought into this.

Santa stopped the bus and let the two-hour tubers off.

When we’d chosen rafting, we thought it would be a two-hour trip. But Santa wasn’t letting any rafters off here.

Next stop was for the four-hour tubers. After they exited, the four-hour kayakers and rafters were allowed to disembark.

A four-hour trip. We hadn’t known it would be this long but, we were up for it.

We walked across a saggy wooden bridge to another teenager manning the kayaks and rafts.

Turns out, we were the only people who’d chosen rafting.

I was dying to pee before we set out. I asked the teenager for a bathroom and he pointed to a porta potty. I’d rather die from pee poisoning than step foot in a porta potty, so I skipped the bathroom break and got onto the raft and in the water.

The Delaware River is pretty, sparkly and blue in most places. The four-hour people get on in the murky, muddy, tires-sitting-in-the-stagnant-water-that-attracts-mosquitos-and-spiders-and small-sharp-really-unpleasant-gnats section.

The water level was so low we could see all the interesting things people thought would make sense to throw into the river.

It took some time but we finally got a rhythm to our paddling. I was so desperate to get out of the murk I paddled like I was fighting for my life.

The Russians climbed in on their kayaks after us shouting a friendly, “good luck, see you in the Atlantic!” as they sped past, despite my frenzied rowing.

We finally got past the murky part and into the clear water where tubers were gliding with the current without exerting any effort at all.

The raft was big and clunky on the water and maneuvering it in the right direction was a job in itself.

We got caught on rocks, sucked into a vortex and pushed by the wind the wrong way, all while pulling our own weight and the weight of the raft and goody-filled backpack toward the finish line.

We stopped and rested and enjoyed the view here and there but all the time we knew we’d have to get back to work.

We finally got to the end where the tired, bored teenagers are supposed to help you out of your flotation device but instead watched us struggle out of the water as they lolled on their folding chairs.

They did manage to yell to us to put our raft, paddles and vests back where we got them.

Doing something different always takes some getting used to. We’ll definitely go back. Next time, it’ll be in a kayak instead of a raft, where Robert can do the work and I can enjoy the ride.