Orca-nizing a river trip

The only thing possibly more important than a river trip is the snack trip preceding it. There is a LOT riding on those sugar- and salt-laden decisions. Sydney's beau, Doug bravely stepped up to the challenge.  "We'll want some chips," Savannah began. Doug paused...he'd clearly navigated these troubled waters before. The Mosiman women were fiercely specific in their snack selections. "Lays," Savannah said, generously casting a wide net. Doug wrinkled his nose and the Mosby gals went for the kill as we rallied to defend a brand that, prior to this moment, we could have cared less about. Yes...another hill for us to die on (or kill Doug who had foolishly wielded his sour cream and onion sword...a weapon hidden like Lucius Malfoy's wand, cloaked in a crutch). He was saved when Lisa sent out the knights of the vale to extricate this San Diegan Jon Snow by professing her love of a rival chip. To say we were "ruffled" would not be an exaggeration.

It was obviously NOT this groups' first river rodeo. All the amenities were provided in regards to comfort, safety, and excess. I, on the other hand, was, proverbially, a fish out of water.  Instructed to get a rashguard to protect my vulnerable lily-white skin that, like the very wings of Icarus, would implode upon contact with the scorching sun of Yuma, I went full-board body armor. The incredulous reaction of my family members upon delivery did nothing to build up my confidence and self-esteem. Will all the other river rafters laugh at me? I wondered, worried. Is it too late to cancel? 

But it was too late now...swept up in a current of insecurity, I stepped, conflicted, into the Colorado River...and was immediately transformed. I self-baptized before arising anew from the transformative water.

"Do I look like a river goddess?" I asked my daughter rhetorically. Of course I did. Sydney tilted her head as she took in my metamorphosis. "You look like an orca." I reverse-breached to sink back beneath the surface. Lisa was waiting when I popped up. "She meant the colors. And how stream-lined you are. Like Flipper." Sighing, someone handed me a single-serve box wine container. Fortunately, my SCUBA suit sported a nifty cleavage zipper so I tucked my wine in and off I went. 

The soft sandy river bottom would only make occasional appearances on our journey. I would be twirling happily about like a spastic seal when I would suddenly encounter a sandbar. "I've run aground," I'd shout, posed, like Shamu on stage, waiting for a treat. I'd eventually wiggle off, plunging back to my watery home. At one point, my pod of pals had gotten away from me when I encountered another band of travelers. Worried for me, they asked if I needed alcohol. Unzipping, I untucked my toddy to reassure them that I was well-endowed. Eyes wide, they cheered before offering to let me hitch a ride back to my family.

Approaching the tubes was a risky maneuver as Savannah stood at-the-ready with spray-on sun protection. Like bear repellent, it renders its victims blind when aimed toward the eyes..."Mom, CLOSE your eyes," and cruelly asphyxiates its victim when sprayed in the mouth..."Mom, stop SCREAMING." But, eventually, when I grew hungry, I would predatorily circle the corralled tubes. I snapped at Slim Jims and crunched chips before hitting the mother-load with a Lunchable snack sandwich of crackers, cheese, and pepperoni. It was a veritable feeding frenzy. 

91% of Yuma's year-round weather is blinding, soul-sucking sun. But our sometimes over-casted day yielded a streak of lightning or two in the distance and a rumble of thunder. "Everyone outta the pool," I shouted, falling into default mom-mode. The seven sprinkles that fell had me finally join sides in the whole immersion debate.  Especially when I discovered one of those "sprinkles" was delivered, not from heaven, but by another mode of winged representative. Washing my hat off for me, my daughters reminded me that it was "good luck" to be marked in such a manner. 

We had so much fun. Lisa, hailing originally from Texas, was in charge of the playlist so she, Sydney, and I belted out country for four hours straight and I was shocked to discover that Savannah had been playing opossum with her knowledge of that genre for years. Doug, channeling his inner Rambo, jogged along the river bottom, with his weapon of choice held aloft over his head, guiding the tubes away from entanglements, confrontations, and danger...effortlessly dropping one-liners and quips to maintain morale. "Pinot? No, later." 

Sydney joined a group of n'er-do-wells to swing from a rope under the Yuma bridge, bringing pride to the family as her little T-Rex arms fought to cling to the vine. Savannah played tugboat as, after 4 hours of swimming, my legs gave out and I was no longer able to propel myself forward to our amphibious finish. 

We staggered up the ramp of the boat launch, triumphant...restored...changed. "What happens on the river,

stays on the river," Lisa shouted as I worried about re-stocking my wine repository. "Until it gets blogged about," I whispered. The river may keep its secrets but I feel no such compulsion. The Colorado has depth while I tend to be more juvenile.