I was trapped underwater, thinking "I am not drowning in the fucking Chilliwack River."
Earlier, our guide had asked if we were cool with a rough ride. He said there were some good rapids to hit, but we might end up with some bruises. We cheered and did some weird paddle high five he had taught us.
As we approached a large flat faced rock on the side of the river, we paddled hard in an attempt to get some air.
All three girls flew from the raft. The guide and boys thankfully stayed in. I found myself caught in a rapid, stuck under the raft.
Cue second most terrifying event of my life.
(The first is clearly a story in it’s own right.)
I remember losing a shoe. Blowing out some air to see which direction the bubbles would rise. Seeing the yellow of the raft above me. Kicking up hard from what was pulling me down. Eventually clinging onto the bottom of the raft, thinking as long as I’ve got a grip on the raft, I’ll be alright.
I broke the surface. Ian grabbed me by the shoulders and tossed me back in.
A tragic (and true) love story for the new generation.
In hundreds of chats automatically saved to my account, we express our love for each other readily and naturally in our own private speech. This is a history of our relationship that we didn’t intend to write, one that runs parallel to the one authored by his uncontainable illness.
"We have no team anymore," Vladimir N. Malkov, the team spokesman, said in a telephone interview with The New York Times. "All our starting players, and all the service people, they all burned in the crash."