Whitewater River Quotes

This kind of thing is why more and more Christian parents are concluding that they cannot afford to keep their children in public schools. Some tell themselves that their children need to remain there to be "salt and light" to the other kids. As popular culture continues its downward slide, however, this rationale begins to sound like a rationalization. It brings to mind a father who tosses his child into a whitewater river in the hopes that she'll save another drowning child.

There is an inherent, humbling cruelty to learning how to run white water. In most other so-called "adrenaline" sports—skiing, surfing and rock climbing come to mind—one attains mastery, or the illusion of it, only after long apprenticeship, after enduring falls and tumbles, the fatigue of training previously unused muscles, the discipline of developing a new and initially awkward set of skills. Running white water is fundamentally different. With a little luck one is immediately able to travel long distances, often at great speeds, with only a rudimentary command of the sport's essential skills and about as much physical stamina as it takes to ride a bicycle downhill. At the beginning, at least, white-water adrenaline comes cheap. It's the river doing the work, of course, but like a teenager with a hot car, one forgets what the true power source is. Arrogance reigns. The river seems all smoke and mirrors, lots of bark (you hear it chortling away beneath you, crunching boulders), but not much bite. You think: Let's get on with it! Let's run this damn river! And then maybe the raft hits a drop in the river— say, a short, hidden waterfall. Or maybe a wave reaches up and flicks the boat on its side as easily as a horse swatting flies with its tail. Maybe you're thrown suddenly into the center of the raft, and the floor bounces back and punts you overboard. Maybe you just fall right off the side of the raft so fast you don't realize what's happening. It doesn't matter. The results are the same. The world goes dark. The river— the word hardly does justice to the churning mess enveloping you— the river tumbles you like so much laundry. It punches the air from your lungs. You're helpless. Swimming is a joke. You know for a fact that you are drowning. For the first time you understand the strength of the insouciant monster that has swallowed you. Maybe you travel a hundred feet before you surface (the current is moving that fast). And another hundred feet—just short of a truly fearsome plunge, one that will surely kill you— before you see the rescue lines. You're hauled to shore wearing a sheepish grin and a look in your eye that is equal parts confusion, respect, and raw fear. That is River Lesson Number One. Everyone suffers it. And every time you get the least bit cocky, every time you think you have finally figured out what the river is all about, you suffer it all over again.

The river runs wide and passive in sunlit stretches, then fast and bawdy with whitewater rapids.

A counterintuitive way to gain insight into a new skill is to contemplate disaster, not perfection. What if you did everything wrong? What if you got the worst possible outcome? This is a problem-solving technique called inversion, and it’s helpful in learning the essentials of almost anything. By studying the opposite of what you want, you can identify important elements that aren’t immediately obvious. Take white-water kayaking. What would I need to know if I wanted to be able to kayak in a large, fast-moving, rock-strewn river? Here’s the inversion: What would it look like if everything went wrong?

Depression is like a river that is in a constant state of ebb and flow. One day the water will be slow and the next it will be full of whitewater currents. You just need to find a way to navigate it every day without being swept away.

Take Brackenpelt upstream to fish,” he mewed. Then he seemed to change his mind. “Wait. The river is running fast, and Brackenpelt is a good white-water fisher. She should fish in the gorge. Take . . .” Owlnose hesitated and glanced around their Clanmates, who were watching him expectantly. “Take . . .” His gaze flitted from one warrior to the next, but he seemed unable to make a decision. “I could take Mallownose,” Splashtail suggested. “He fishes well in slow water.” “Yes.” Owlnose sounded relieved at the suggestion. “Take Mallownose.” “And Podlight?” Splashtail prompted. “Yes,” Owlnose agreed. “What about taking Sneezecloud too?” Splashtail added. “There’s a wide stretch of river. A large hunting party would catch more fish.

It’s white-water rafting. It’s got risks. You can’t have a piece of the wild and not go out in the wild. You can watch it on TV from your cozy chair, you can hear about it from your friends, but there’s nothing like actually being on a river and showing it who’s boss.

This kind of thing is why more and more Christian parents are concluding that they cannot afford to keep their children in public schools. Some tell themselves that their children need to remain there to be “salt and light” to the other kids. As popular culture continues its downward slide, however, this rationale begins to sound like a rationalization. It brings to mind a father who tosses his child into a whitewater river in hopes that she’ll save another drowning child.