The Mother-in-Law of Deaf

For most people, summertime means enjoying time outside, in the sunshine. Well, maybe not this year so much … but usually.

Some people like to do things like hike the West Coast Trail, or go para-sailing, or bungee-jumping. Others, like me, prefer to pick berries. Perhaps swim in calm water, and then dry off in the sun, with a book. And possibly a glass of wine.

But I’ve taken my share of risks. Glad I did ’em, even gladder I’m done ’em.

For example: Many, many years ago, my husband and I took our staff on a white-water rafting expedition, a team-building/summer party sort of idea. Unfortunately, none of us had ever done this before, and we had no idea what those numbers – Class 1, Class 5 – meant, in terms of danger. For the record, the higher the number, the greater the likelihood of violent death.

Ours was a Class 4-5.

We didn’t figure this out until we’d already driven the three hours it took to get there, undressed in front of a group of hippies, squirmed into our wet suits, signed the waiver stating that we understood any mishap would render our life insurance null and void, leaving our children impoverished orphans, and then listened to the instructions on what to do when – not IF but WHEN! – we got thrown out of the raft, dragged underwater and lodged behind a snag.

Oh well, in for a penny and all that.

The very first thing they did was dump each of us into the lake, so we’d be wet before hitting the river. Now, it was probably around 30 degrees C in the valley, but this is a glacier-fed lake, high up in the mountains. The water was the kind of cold that makes your innards shrivel, your lungs contract, your entire body seize. And this wearing a wet suit. Then, once you’re good and wet, muscles frozen, they tell you to climb back in the raft.

Right. I can’t move enough to stay afloat but I’m going to haul myself up and into a raft.

So, they grabbed me by my wet suit and dragged me back in, like a wounded manatee. The humiliation. Once we were all sufficiently drenched, quaking and aware of our own human frailty, it was time for the fun to begin!

The guide on our raft was an Aussie (aren’t they all??) with a delicious accent, who kept yelling at us whenever we weren’t paddling hard enough. I was having enough trouble hanging on, let alone paddling, so I got yelled at a lot.

Being a good guide and understanding the relationship of entertainment value to his tip, he’d named all the various rapids. The Roller Coaster. The Dragon. The Swirly Whirly. As we came up to each one, he’d call out the name, and then add “OF DEATH.” As in, “Alrighty mates, paddle harder, here comes… THE MOTHER-IN-LAW … OF DEATH!

But, with his accent, it sounded like he was saying DEAF instead of DEATH. And despite the likelihood of our own imminent DEAF, we kept laughing at him. And maybe because of the laughter, we ended up enjoying the day, even THE MOTHER-IN-LAW OF DEAF!!

I can say with certainty that I will never go on such a trip again, but I’m awfully glad I did it.

Mostly, I’m glad we all survived.

These people are much cooler than we were. Plus, they're all paddling, more or less. But you get the idea...