The Raft

Note from Kathy's daughter: Today is my dad's birthday. I visited my mom's blog to share something with my missionary nephew and I saw that I never published this story. It's half mom's and half my memories of what mom would say. For those of you who had the privilege to hear this in person, can you see the two-man raft that she had propped up against the pulpit? That's how she rolled. Enjoy.


This is one of those stories that I've been telling forever.

I can't recall if I've written it down somewhere.

Too many classrooms to count have been subjected to it, in and out of the church.  I've told it at a stake conference and at a high school assembly when they couldn't get a real speaker.

It's now been willed to my two youngest daughters who occasionally afflict it upon their students when the situation seems to require such an affliction.

I've had special trouble getting this story written because like "Francine the Fish," it requires a whole lot of dramatic eye rolling, arm waving, and horror stricken looks.  Plus, I even have the audience stand at one point, search behind them for an invisible raft, and turn slowing around before sitting down again.

Writing these physical elements is troublesome because, with my feeble skills, I can't get words on paper to convey the meaning body language carries.

After all, it's said that 90% of all communication is done without speaking.

I think that's absolutely true. We use shrugs, winces, disgusted looks, tone, winks....that sort of thing.
That thought leads me to go off on a tangent as I often did in the classroom.

Think of all the different meanings a kiss can have for instance.
Depending on the situation, that simple act has gone from sweet, tender, love to the most bitter betrayal of all time.
And what about a bouquet of flowers?
Was that, "Too bad you're sick," "Happy birthday," or "I did a bad thing"?
And garbage taken out "without asking" has always said "I love you" to me.

I'll never forget one of my high school seniors who had trouble understanding this puzzling aspect of being human, as many kids with learning disabilities do.
They often have trouble reading people "outside the lines" so to speak. Many times they think words alone are what counts most when in reality sometimes words don't count at all.
Unfortunately, this can make for trouble.

The trouble one time started with a young man's girlfriend who was "torqued" at him. (His term was not "torqued" but I changed it to be more delicate.)
Scotty couldn't figure out why she was mad.
All the students in my 7th period were boys, and the guys were trying to help him remember what he'd done wrong.

He'd asked her if he did something that "upset" her, (Upset wasn't his word here either. Delicacy change again)
She said, "No, Scott, of course you didn't do anything......you never do.... and I'm not mad!"
He believed what she said.
But she still wouldn't kiss him.
He didn't understand why. After all, he'd asked her if did something to make her mad and she said he didn't do anything and she wasn't mad.

Finally I could take the ignorance no longer.

"Wait a second fellas.  Scotty's girlfriend may have said she wasn't mad at him, but HOW she said it is the real story."
"Huh?" was the reply from the class.
I demonstrated,  giving several dramatic renditions of "You didn't do anything wrong and I'm not mad," with wildly different meanings.

When I finished, the whole class, all boys, looked at me with the most dumbstruck expressions.

Then one poor guy piped up.
"MZ Dub. Do you mean that when a girl says she's not mad....... or that she doesn't care if you go to the wrestling match instead of taking her to the movies.......or that you don't have to call her tomorrow..... that's not what she really means if she says it in a certain kind of way?!?!"

I truly felt sorry for them as I answered in my most sympathetic tone,
"Of course. Everybody knows that.
We'll have a lesson on reading voice, tone, and body language next week."
The whole class groaned and somebody threw an eraser at Scotty.

And now, here I am, an eye rolling, arm waving storyteller, stuck with only words.
Not to mention that this particular tale is much enhanced with large and cumbersome props like a four man inflatable raft which I once dragged onto a podium or large wooden oars which suffice in a pinch.
Yes indeed, I've found that storytelling and writing are very different ways to row to the same dock.
In any case, I've been asked, so here goes.
You all will have to help considerably with a vivid imagination.

One summer, many years ago, not long after school got out, I was blackmailed into being one of the chaperones on a rafting excursion through a canyon in Northern Arizona. I was much younger then, of course.
We were rewarding a bunch of high school kids for jobs well done during the school year.
Some idiot, I believe it was the football coach, thought a three day trip on rubber boats down a cold river would be just the reward kids would love most. Of course the students agreed.
After all they were teenagers whose brains had not finished developing yet. I admit sometimes wondering about the football coach.
Nevertheless, off we went.

Our school bus full of excited teenagers and terrified adults arrived at the river dock. A company of guides and river experts had been hired to provide all the particulars of the adventure. This included crude outdoor latrines with canvas walls and tiny one-man tents barely big enough for a sleeping bag.
The rollaway bed I'm used to when roughing it was nowhere in sight.

Anyway, off we went.
Laughing, noisy kids, expert guides, idiot coaches, and grumbling, reluctant chaperones all piled into three huge rubber rafts for a trip to remember.

The first two days went surprisingly well, I must admit.
The river was slow and smooth, running sometimes through shady groves of sycamore and cottonwood trees. The weather was hot and sunny but the water was cool and clear. Fish jumped, butterflies fluttered, dragonflies flitted. The kids swam and splashed in the deep pools
It was undeniably lovely.
We pulled over to set up camp each night. The guides skillfully prepared burgers and dogs over open fires while watermelons cooled in the shallows. Marshmallows were set ablaze from sticks as dessert.
I had to admit that I was wrong and the football coach was right. The whole experience had been great.                                            

Then, as dawn broke over the breakfast fire on our last day, a committee of kids came with a request to the adults.
They wanted to navigate their own rafts. Float their own boats.
They were sure they could handle everything well just as the guides been doing for the past two days. They wanted to try it on their own. Isn't that what all teenagers want?                                                 

The chaperones and guides conferred and it was decided to grant permission to the kid's request. The guides assured us that the last leg of our float should be free of any hazards.
So all the young people excitedly piled into the last two of the rafts and the old folks carefully climbed into the first.

All morning long things went very well. The lunch stop was to be our last meal together. As we floated peacefully along that afternoon we noticed that the rafts were getting strung out with the last one full of kids sometimes out of sight around bends in the river.  We could hear them though, with their stereos and singing blaring raucous rap sounds through the trees.They were having fun as teenagers should.

As the tired adults were looking all around for a nice area near the water to stop for lunch, the guides noticed a change in the terraine that was unexpected. The water had become brown and bumpy,and I became worried and silent. I listened (holding on to the side of the raft with a firm grip) to the conversation of the guides as they discussed what had happened to change the canyon water so dramatically. Their best guess was that a higher area was experiencing a great amount of rain and we were floating on the run-off that was full of dirt and debris. As they were discussing options, they noticed that the water ahead had unexpectedly split into two paths, leaving an island of sorts in the middle of the the two. As we all surveyed what was ahead, the guides began to scream to us to row as quickly as we could towards the water path on the right. Go Right! Go Right! We must go to the Right! Get to the shore on the right!

All of us furiously paddled, directing our boat as best we could through the choppy brown waters, I could tell that most of us were in silent fervent prayer- praying that we would all make it safely to shore. The two rafts with the adults managed to get to the right and bound out safely. We spilled out of the rafts and stood on shore for just a moment trying to catch our breath. All of us chapperones kind of wondering the same thing--What did the guides see that was so dangerous?

I looked around searching the landscape. And then I saw it.

All the blood drained from my face as I realized the danger that was up ahead. Seconds later, the adults started running back towards the boats of teenagers that would soon appear upstream. We started screaming, yelling, waving our hands and oars as we ran towards the sounds of bass heavy music and laughter coming closer and closer to us.

We could see the first raft of students in the distance. We screamed louder and jumped higher and waved our arms more vigorously. To the right! Go to the right! Go right! Pull over on the right!!!! As the kids came closer, a couple of them noticed us dancing wildly on the shores, turned down the music and hushed the group. After hearing our warnings, they quickly got their paddles in the water and directed their raft over to the right side of the water. They learned of danger ahead and began to run upstream with youthful strength to try and save their friends who were not far behind.

On the last raft, a couple of the teens seemed to be sunbathing or napping. A few of the boys were having a waterfight on the opposite edge of the boat, while a few more were having an oar-sword fight.  The harsh thumping music, which had questionable lyrics by the way, was playing at headache-causing decible level that mirrored the last high school dance I reluctantly chapperoned. We tried and tried to get their attention. Screaming, yelling, jumping, and waving broken tree branches in the air. A few of the adults even tried throwing chunks of wood onto their raft to get their attention.

It didn't work.

You see. What they didn't know; what they couldn't see ahead; was what the storm waters had done to that other side of the newly formed island. The waters had loosened the ground enough to allow a large powerpole to lean down over the rushing waters. The wires had snapped and were now violently flailing spark shooters hanging just above the left water path. Anything going along this side would almost certainly be burned. Electrocuted.

Now this is where my mom left the story. Marked as a draft on her blog.

There were key details that I knew she would include. The part where she would have you look back behind you to see the ones who are following you. She had yet to wrap it up and relate it to life in the brilliant way that only my mom does. I'm actually kind of mad she didn't. She left the toughest part.

There are many layers to this story--especially because it was told in several different setttings.

For my AVID students and those in the gymnasium in the white mountians, this story is about listening to coaches and caring adults in your life because they have been on the same path as you and have seen the dangers ahead. Listen to their warnings. Listen when they caution and repremand you. They are trying to save you from pain and heartache. If they are shouting from the shoreline, they still care about you and want whats best for you.

For the young women in her beehive class, this story is about listening to the warnings of Prophets and Apostles as they lead us through our journey here on earth. They give us guidance through scriptures and conference talks that help us in our day, in our circumstances. Do we listen? Do we study the scriptures? Or do we turn up the world louder and drown out their voices?

For those attending the Regional Fireside, this story is about the Savior. And His constant plea for us to follow His path and choose the right. He has placed many along the shores to warn us and even has given us the Holy Ghost to help us hear and commit to his directions. Do we turn off the radio and watch for Jesus daily? Do we seek out time with the Savior and try to learn of Him, and follow him? Do we look ahead to see those who are placed in our lives by Him to help us ultimately navigate the treachorous waters? Are we trying to be like Jesus?

My mom said that once after she shared this story at a stake event, a young woman came up to her afterwards and asked her if it was true. Her reply was classic mom, with a wisdom that I was envious of even at a young age. "It happens every day."