Anyway, here is Zoltan’s 1997 column about white water rafting with myself in Austria. It was one of our goofiest, scariest adventures. Read Dave Barry’s column and then Zoltan’s and let me know if you think they were separated at birth.
AFTER HOURS by Zoltan Scrivener
Budapest Business Journal, 1997
RAFT GUIDES DITCH ZOLTAN FOR 2 BABES.
Wetsuit-clad whitewater rafting instructor Zsolt
Strohoffer looked at me through wrap-around sunglasses
and said: "Uh-oh."
UH-OH?
I had just confessed to possessing absolutely no
canoeing or rowing experience. The closest I ever get
to fast water is when I pull the plug in my bathtub.
And now I was about to go whitewater rafting near
Palfau, Austria - a country with excellent medical
facilities. Which is important, because I would be
bouncing over the very sections of river where my
guide claims a considerable number of rafters have
died. So for this course you pay your money in
advance.
The "sport" of "white" water rafting got its name
because that's the color participants' faces turn by
the time they finish. I'd even chosen a week when the
area had received its highest flood waters of the
century and the army was busy rebuilding bridges.
Zsolt, though, said the floods were a good thing,
because water speed was about twice normal.
Now a word about our rafts. Many people conquer rivers
like these in huge, rubber dinghies that seat about 13
and bounce over most anything. Which left with me just
one question: Why the hell are we roaring down-stream
in tiny, two-man "tracks" instead?
"They are bouncier, more unstable and fun," Zsolt
explained. "You and the photographer will each go with
an instructor." This made me happy, until I spoke to
my potential instructor, Akos. When I voiced my safety
concerns, he stared at me and in a slow, deep voice
said: "You want to live forever?"
I felt strangely unreassured by this response.
Standing in our wetsuits, we were given basic "safety"
instructions: If we fall out of a track "float feet
down first." Then we donned lifejackets and helmets.
And then our instructors told us they were feeling
compelled to take along two leggy females in their
tracks instead of us.
Their "Uh-oh" assessment had suddenly turned into
"Uh....you'll be all right."
Thus dumped by our instructors, I turned to
photographer Jim - who last canoed 10 years ago, on
smooth water - for some comforting words. And
reassuringly he spoke too - except I couldn't help
noticing he was wearing his swimsuit inside out.
Still, we managed a perfect start, pushing off the
bank with our paddles. One problem: We were heading
backwards.
"Beautiful scenery," said Jim.
I started paddling furiously to steer us
when…"SPLASH."
We hit wave after wave. The boat's front flew up, and
my jaws clattered with each jolt. Fun? About as much
fun as bouncing down the office stairs on your butt
with colleagues throwing cold buckets of water into
your face.
While the boaters around us chose the traditional
"steering with paddles while pointing downstream"
method, we opted for the "bouncing backwards off both
banks" method. Our paddles were for fending off
scenery.
"Lovely trees," said Jim.
By this point - two hours into the ride - our boat was
full of freezing water and we were exhausted from
panicked paddling. Jim had tried slowing the boat by
grabbing riverbank vegetation, but our momentum was
too great, so he ended up looking like some madman
ripping up sapplings as we headed down river.
UNTIL....he found a strong branch. Jim stopped dead.
But the boat, unfortunately, did not. I watched him
slowly getting stretched and, when he reached roughly
seven feet in length, he suddenly snapped back into
the boat, smacking his face into the water.
While he dripped dry, our track wobbled into a boulder
patch. "Paddle! Paddle!" instructed Jim. With my eyes
closed, I gave up paddling in the water and started
beating the boulders with my paddle instead. Then I
heard: "Er.....Zoltan....Zoltan.....small problem."
I looked around and ....no Jim. He was now dangling
off the side of the track, his body squeezed between
the boat and the boulder, acting as a buoy (or rather
boy-buoy). Somehow he managed to get back on and grab
a plant strong enough to stop us before we exited into
the Mediterranean.
I am never doing this again.
Posted by Jim at September 29, 2003 09:19 PM
