Harold start up

Harold knew if he didn’t act quick he might not make it down the river. Rapids burst all around him - just a tiny teacup spinning down a drain - and it was either maneuver the kayak with confidence, or jump into the churning white enigma. Commit or quit.

Harold took a deep breath and jumped. It was slow going for the 189 pounds of flesh and clothing, a cell phone dying in his left velcroed pocket. Water all around him rushed like a bubbling spray hose, and his lungs remained still, capped tight with pursed lips, while his body slow-mo sank. His hair ascended. Harold’s heart pounded like an urgent visitor to the toilet. His legs did what his head told them to – point down, expect a rock to spring up against.

Nothing; his legs instinctively scissored in the cold, though Harold had no awareness of the water’s temperature. Like a cymbal’s single strike, he suddenly realized he could be up or down, sideways or anywhere; Harold felt lost, loosing it, his veins shot through with ice-cold sugar water.

Desperate to breathe, Harold bit his lips instead. He closed his eyes and saw the note he’d read from his wife: “I love you. See you tonight.”

She was always right. How could he have ever doubted her? How could he cry underwater?

Just like the final dip on a rollercoaster, when your stomach unexpectedly reacquaints itself with your lap, Harold was spanked fiercely onto the riverbank. He gasped, water strained from moustache into mouth, as he laughed and cried, and lived happily ever after.