It was a cold Saturday morning. I didn’t like being on a raft floating down the scary rapids. I was going on the trip with my youth group. We split into three boats, and with my luck, I was placed with the only guy that had never been down the McKenzie. We rounded the bend, and way down the river I saw the first boat just drop out of existence. About five minutes later, we saw it float away. The driver didn’t really know what to do. He went into the rapids straight on when he really should have come in facing right to row out. The raft slammed head first into a tree and my head ran straight into the cooler as it flipped up out of the raft. The raft sailed into the air at a vertical angle. Time felt like it had stopped. In slow motion, I saw my youth pastor, Luke, get flung from the boat and a friend dive off the end. I however, like the driver, was forced under the raft for a few terrifying moments. My air felt like it was ripped out of my lungs, and my body went numb from the cold. Then after what felt like an eternity, my head broke the surface of the water. I was still gulping for air, and barely doing that, when a sharp tug came from under the boat. Doug’s hand was clamped around my ankle, so I pulled with all my strength I had left, and surprisingly he came up from the watery depths. Even more to my surprise, he was laughing; I was not. What happened next was not in the least bit funny. Even after it all, I had the same view as I did before we left, that this trip was going to be horrible.