| Some
Psychological Traumas Run Deep |
By
Ron Culberson
Humor Columnist |
| On the way home from a church mission trip in southwest
Virginia, I reluctantly accompanied 19 high school students
on a tubing trip down the New River near Blacksburg (cue "Deliverance"
music). If you haven't had the pleasure, tubing involves stuffing
your hindquarters into the middle of a tractor tire tube while
you glide peacefully down a river enjoying the calm current
and the beautiful scenery. At least that's how it's supposed
to be. |
| As the students poured into the New River that day, I stayed
onshore reliving a vivid flashback of my first tubing experience.
At the time, I was only 13 and the bottom line was that I
was terrified of snakes, snapping turtles and anything else
that might lurk in the murky water under my own bottom line.
In fact, I had offered to stay home to keep an eye on our
valuables, but my parents reminded me that we had no valuables
so I was forced to go along for the ride. Thus began a psychological
trauma of dueling banjo proportions. |
| Shortly after we "put in," we encountered our
first run of rapids. I quickly discovered that my body was
not well suited for tubing. Not only did I continually slip
through the tube, due to the simple fact that my slight yet
chiseled physique didn't fill the hole, I had no natural padding
to protect me from the 4,000 or so river rocks scattered throughout
the rapids. I bottomed out a dozen times causing bruises all
over my back sidewhich could have been just the evidence
I needed for Social Services to place me in a non-tubing family.
I complained about the rocks, but my brother just told me
to "grow up" and "act like a man." It
occurs to me that I don't even act like a man today, so I'm
sure it was an unrealistic expectation at 13. |
| After barely surviving rapids, we hit a deep, slow section
of the river. During the slow sections, you have a lot of
time to think and when I'm in deep, slow water, I tend to
think about what else might be in the deep, slow water. It
was the "scaredest" I had ever been….that is until
we floated around the next bend. |
| I could hear the others yelling about something in the river
and warning us to steer clear. All I could see was what appeared
to be a large balloon. In fact, it resembled that Porky Pig
balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. As I got closer,
however, I realized it was no balloon. |
| It was a real pig. A real dead pig. |
| And apparently, it had been there for a quite some time
because it had grown, filled with dead pig gas, to the size
of a small southwest Virginia mobile home. And what was worse,
the current was taking me right toward it. |
| Panic set in. My legs and arms began thrashing about as
if my life and future psychological wellbeing depended on
one simple outcomeget my bruised bottom out of that river
and onto the safety of the shore. Luckily, I had attended
swim camp that year and was quite an effective thrasher. After
an exhausting two minutes of Olympic-caliber helicopter strokes,
I reached shallow water and dove for the bank. |
| My mother, bless her heart, was not so lucky. You see, my
mother had never learned to swimor to thrash for that matter.
And while her natural buoyancy would keep her afloat if she
fell off her tube, she had no ability to coordinate her limbs
in any one direction. The more she flailed, the less effective
she was. It was like watching a NASCAR accident in slow motion.
She screamed her way right into the underbelly of that swollen
swine. |
| As she made contact, a loud burst of gas exploded from some
hidden opening on the pig. The elasticity from the tightened
skin then propelled her back across the water and slammed
her onto the shore right behind me. Frantically, she picked
up her tube and declared that she'd meet us at the car four
miles down the road. Of course, I went with her thus avoiding
the chance of running into another one of Old MacDonald's
missing friends further downstream. |
| Since that sunny afternoon in my 13th year, I have never
tubed in a river again. And while it wasn't quite as intense
as "Deliverance," I sure do have a greater respect
for Ned Beatty. |
| Until next time, just humor me. |
