When I was seventeen, I told my parents a few friends and I were going to the “Tallulah River” and that I would be totally safe. What I didn't tell them was that the Tallulah gorge was a class V river that we'd only seen in boating magazines and that we had all made a pact to run Oceana, a 150 foot rock slide with big boulders sticking out at random intervals and water going so fast it would shoot 20 feet in the air when it hit these rocks.

When we got to the river, I signed a document exempting the state of Georgia for any liability for my life, and then walked down five hundred metal stairs to the entrance rapid to the gorge. We had to stand in line with our boats over our shoulders, while we waited for our turn to put in. Right off the bat, you were putting your boat in a very small eddy in a hardcore class IV rapid (The only criteria for class V is that a human being has survived passing through it in a kayak, to give you a scale). After whizzing through Entrance rapid, boofing off of a rock and a fun little 5 foot drop, the world ended.

We eddied out on the side, and looked down. Below us, we saw a 150 foot rock slide called Oceana. It drops 50 feet in elevation and is 150 feet in length, and goes fast enough and spreads out the river's flow enough that there are only 2 inches of fast moving water over the rock. The few exceptions to this are the boulders and rock ledges that hang like obstacles on the descent, capable of shooting the fast moving water 20 feet in the air or stopping any kayak that wants to hit it going 30 mph. The safest line is to aim for a small chute on the left and punch a recirculating hole at the bottom. One of the legendary injuries on this rapid was a lady whose shin bone became connected to her hip bone after hitting the biggest rock ledge (called the “Thing”) at full speed and coming to a dead stop in a playboat that didn't protect her legs well (just a side note, I've never tried to confirm this story and got it third hand, but I definitely believed it at the time). We looked down at the rapid, and then at each other. We were all nervous, and all knew it.

It's hard to describe the feeling kayaking up to a horizon line gives you, but I love it. You hopefully have a plan to get down and faith in your abilities, but the world you exist in keeps disappearing over this edge and all you can hear on the other side is a ferocious crashing sound. It is a straight horizon, and you can't see anything until you go over the edge. As you get closer and closer to the edge, you feel your speed pick up. To hit the rapid right, you need to pick up as much speed as you can, so a moment comes when you need to embrace your fate and paddle for the edge as hard as possible. Your heart beats faster, other thoughts drain away and you make the drop. The world opens up as you whiz down the rapid, and you make decisions by reflex and through training, with the barest minimum of thought. It's like being in a fight.

As I came over the edge at Oceana, I immediately realized I was stupid. I'd trained for this rapid and anticipated it as though it were normal, and I would be able to control the line of my boat with my paddle. Unfortunately, there was only an inch and a half of water over the rock in most places, so your paddle would just hit rock and wouldn't really control the boat.

I also got water in my eyes on the initial splash, and shook my head to clear it. In that small span of time, I ended up heading straight towards one of the bigger rocks immediately to my right. I'd heard or people breaking legs on those rocks, but going as fast as I was I was more worried about my head. In an effort to avoid death by swift rock to the head and to steer my boat to the left, I leaned back to the left side of the boat and raised the right side of my boat to get it in between me and the rock. When I hit, the boat flipped over and I was going down the rapid on my face. I rolled immediately and was only was only down for a half second, but I was going 25-30 MPH and a small rock ledge hit my teeth, then my nose, and then ripped my paddle out of my hands. I handrolled up right as I entered the recirculating hole at the bottom (think washing machine that sucks people in and drowns them with the current from the waterfall) , and had to use my hands to paddle out while it tried to suck me back.

What my friends found most amusing about the whole thing was that the first words out of my mouth were “where is my paddle?”. I had a bloody nose, had small, pointy shards where my front teeth used to be (difficult to eat nachos with, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation), and all I cared about was the whereabouts of Maximus, the solid carbon fiber Werner paddle I'd blown a month's lifeguarding salary on (another side note- Werner paddles are awesome and their marketing director, Jim Miller, is an awesome dude who gave me a write up on their blog). Someone had caught it coming out of the hole, and we were reunited. I got out for a second, wiped the blood off my face and did the rest of the river in a state of adrenal ecstasy. It was unquestionably worth the teeth, and is some of the most fun I've ever had on whitewater. As far as I know, bits of my teeth are still bobbing around somewhere in the Tallulah gorge. I still intend to go back, but got a little out of creekboating shape when I came to college in Florida (I'm about graduated though :-), and intend to move someplace with lots of whitewater).

Oceana, as pictured on American Whitewater