My First Wet Exit

My First Wet Exit

Story by Charles Foster
May 1, 1996

My friend Steve had talked me into taking a kayaking lesson on the SF American River. While I had years of experience in various water sports, kayaking wasn't one of them, and it sounded fun.

Now Steve was one party-loving-guy, and he'd arranged for us to get a ride up to the river on the South Bay River Rafters' bus. This bus is basically a rolling lesson on the evils of alcohol; people board the bus sober in Los Angeles, and end up embarrassing themselves in all sorts of ways on the eight-hour drive to Sacramento. I still shudder to think about some of the things that happened on that bus:

Handing an ice-cold Cape Codder, made using generic "Polish Vodka", to a girl in the seat behind my friend and I. Moments later, the girl accidentally dumping half of the sticky cranberry juice concoction down my friend's back.
Awhile later, the same girl throwing up behind us. Seems Cape Codders and beer don't mix. For some reason, she thought her purse was a good repository. Forewarned by her earlier accident, Steve and I both leapt to our feet to avoid any "fallout".
Even later, said girl's boyfriend, eating potato chips, suddenly realizing why the chips were a little soggy; his girlfriend hadn't just thrown up in her purse.
Staggering back to the bathroom in the back of the bus, and being immensely glad that the lighting was dim; all sorts of things I didn't really want to see clearly were on the floor and toilet seat.
Various acts of debauchery which would serve as textbook examples for an Abolitionist's pamphlet. I've done my best to repress these memories.

Needless to say, waking up for our boating lesson the next morning was a painful event. When our instructor arrived, he wasn't looking so great either; he and his boss had also been partying most of the night.

As we drove down the winding road from Coloma to Folsom Lake, everyone's face was ashen. I know I was immensely relieved when the van's sickening lurching and swaying finally stopped, and we were allowed to get out.

I was the first to get my boat (a Hydra Taurus!) free from the trailer, and I dragged it down the hundred yards to the muddy lake shore unsupervised. Everyone else was still fumbling with the rest of the boats so I clambered into the Hydra, secured my sprayskirt, and cast off.

Hung over and having no prior paddling experience, I lounged back on the rear of the cockpit like a Sunday afternoon couch potato in a lazi-boy recliner. I might have got in five or six strokes before flipping.

So there I was, in the foul warm waters of Lake Folsom, upside-down, groggy, alone, with absolutely no idea how to get out of the boat. The paddle was out of my hands in an instant, but frantic dog-paddling allowed me to get in a few desperate gulps of air as I thrashed and twisted, trying to free my lower body from the kayak. I'd known how to swim since I was 2, had worked as a professional salvage diver, often at depths exceeding 100 feet, and now I was in severe trouble in six foot deep water.

In less than a minute I was out, but that was one of my closest experiences with drowning. As it was, I had a sore knee for a few days; I'd given it a good wrenching during my panicked exit from the boat. The near-drowning did prove to be a very effective hangover cure though; perhaps it was the adrenaline?

With my freshly-cleared mind, and incentivized outlook on obtaining proper instruction, the rest of the day went quite well. We all became proficient wet-exiters, and my friend and I both learned to roll before lunch. And I've been boating ever since.

This document was last updated on Tuesday, May 29, 2001