Finding The Eddy
I’m an avid outdoor adventure seeker, and one of my favorite outdoor adventures is running whitewater in my raft. The International Scale of River Difficulty has six classes spanning from Class I (Easy) to Class VI (Un-runnable). With each increase of class the water becomes faster, more obstructed, more technical, and bigger waves.
Every big set of rapids starts with a glass-like pond full of still water slowly and peacefully pulling the boat to the edge of noisy chaos. Any boatman that has run a rapid has seen this, although every rapid does not look the same. The calm makes you want to row harder. The only hint that chaos is ready to be unleased besides the still water is a faint dull drone that grows louder with every inch floated closer until the unmistakable roar of an approaching rapid is deafening as the boat drops into storm of whitewater. Some rivers can accelerate from a nearly still two miles per hour to more than twenty-five in only a few hundred feet. What was once quiet becomes a gauntlet of frothing whitewater weaving around boulders the size of cars—and sometimes houses. To an inexperienced boatman, the safest path through dangerous waters with obstacles that could crush a small car, may seem like the straightest fastest line to the safe calm waters on the other side. But the experienced boatman knows that pulling against the current and maneuvering his boat to the still, calm waters behind the rock, buys him precious time to gain composure, relax the muscles, catch his breath, see the river, plot his next moves, and make them.
Pulling against the current buys the boatman time. Time to think and process the turbulence that is being experienced around him. When the main instinct is to bear down and charge full speed ahead, the boatman goes against the grain, slows the river, and processes.
Loud. Big. Fast. Full of obstacles. Pulling against the flow, leaning into the current can bring us to the shelter of the eddy behind the rock and allow us to process while we are in the midst of a loud and chaotic season of our life. The shelter brings a stillness that allows us time to relax our muscles for the next push, to plot our next moves through the rapid, to buy us precious time to catch our breath from the hard work we have already done.
Eventually, the river no longer allows the boatman the luxury of the shelter behind the rock. He has caught his breath. He has seen the river. He has chosen his next line. Now it's time to row again. Perhaps this is why I love the river like I do. The river is constant. It reminds me that slowing down isn’t falling behind. Sometimes it’s the only way to move forward.