Some Thoughts on Fear
I’ve always found fear fascinating in the way it does not transfer from person to person. While I am terrified of spiders, snakes, and sharks, my friend could have no qualms about them, instead fearing clowns, tight spaces, and drowning. An object, a creature, a situation all have the potential to scare us. Some of these triggers are so strong, they can even paralyze us.
I often try to live by Eleanor Roosevelt’s motto, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Most frequently, I apply this motto to my rock climbing. Though I’ve been climbing for 13 years, I undoubtedly get scared climbing from time to time. Humans are innately afraid of heights, and I don’t think it strange that I find my heart racing when my arms are fatiguing, the wind is blowing, and I’m struggling to clip a bolt at 50 feet up. Much of climbing — arguably 50% of it — is learning to dispel the fears and negative thoughts that will hinder you while on the wall. Forcing yourself to breathe, acknowledging the places that falling would either be dangerous or fatal, weighing the potential gain and loss of continuing, and then making your decision. Without a strong head game, you simply cannot progress in climbing.
And so, I try to force myself to get on rope routes that are objectively difficult, but not necessarily out of my range. Because when I’m at the gym or on a bolted route outdoors, I’m pretty darn safe to take the risk that I’ll fall. The possibility of a bolt failing is always there, for sure — but that’s regardless of whether I am in or outdoors. No matter which location, I know that I really shouldn’t fall before the third bolt, or I could hit the ground. After that, so long as I have an attentive belayer and trust myself, I should be fine. Yes, falling would mean potentially descending up to 10-15 feet, to be caught by my belayer and last bolt, but I would be safe. Just shaken up.
In climbing, I get scared. But I have the reasoning and experience to push past it. Other things, not so much: namely, whitewater kayaking.
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Several of my college friends are obsessed with whitewater kayaking. For them, climbing is the terrifying activity. Though I have a decent amount of whitewater rafting experience, I don’t feel I can compare it to kayaking. With rafting, you’re never alone — you’re in a team of usually at least 6 people. Moreover, I’ve actually learned rafting strokes and guided people down mellow Class II rivers. A lot of fear dissipates with experience. But a lot of fear also arises — and builds — from experience, too.
When you learn to kayak, the first step is to complete a “wet exit.” This means that in the pool or river, you flip yourself upside down in your kayak, tuck your head in, and pull off your spray skirt (a stretchy covering that goes around your waist and pulls around the hole of the kayak). You then are released into the water and come to the surface. You do this, so that in an actual situation in which you flip upside down, you can escape your kayak and not remain trapped underwater. With time, you then learn how to “roll” your kayak — to be able to snap your hips powerfully enough to right yourself, rather than wet exiting.
The first time I did a wet exit was the first month of freshman year of college. My hall had a personal “roll session” at the college pool. When my RA and I attempted to wet exit, both of us ended up slamming our faces on the bottom of our kayaks as we tried to emerge from underwater. It being the first month of school and everyone already knowing the RA, not me, all of our peers flocked to her to calm her down. Meanwhile, my face was equally throbbing and no one noticed. Further, the instructor on duty was completely impatient and irritated with me as I attempted to practice “hip snaps” to work towards rolling the kayak. It wasn’t an auspicious start. I wasn’t down for this sport.
I spent a good portion of that freshman spring learning rafting skills, culminating in a Swiftwater Rescue training: essentially all the safety and emergency protocols for leading people in whitewater. The training also went poorly. I nearly got hypothermia from the water both days of the weekend, shaking uncontrollably. In addition, I got injured both days, cutting my hand on a rock and getting bruised from the ropes I was using in a mock rescue. Though I had had much time in whitewater learning to raft, this training weekend quickly ruined any comfort or ease I felt in whitewater. I became immensely aware of the power of water, and I no longer wanted to engage with it — rafting or otherwise.
Over time, I think I built this fear of whitewater up in my head a great deal. It reminds me of the time when I was 9 and had a horrible experience on Disney World’s Rockin’ Rollercoaster — I swore off rollercoasters for literal years, only to discover, upon riding a rollercoaster again, that I actually loved the adrenaline of them. Similarly, I remember that as a child, I never had too much of a problem getting shots. Then when I was 12, receiving the third of three Gardisil shots, I actually bawled in pain and felt shaky all day. From that shot onward, I grew incredibly terrified of injections and prayed every year that when I went to the doctor, I wouldn’t be due for another. I even avoided getting my flu shot during all of high school, I was so afraid. Then I got the flu, realized that I was being an idiot, and forced myself to get the shot the next year. The result? Hardly painful at all. In both instances, I allowed one experience of something represent all experiences of that thing, blowing up the fear in my mind. And I did the same with whitewater.
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At the beginning of this year, one of my whitewater friends, Jesse, begged me to take him climbing. I was happy to do it; I enjoy taking beginners out. That climbing day, he innocently asked, “Hey Slaico, so since I’m out here climbing with you, would you go kayaking with me this fall or spring?” He’d asked me this several times over our college years, and I’d always brushed the question off. This time, I think he was trying to frame it in a “I’ve tried your sport, so why don’t you try mine?” sort of way. Except that he asked me to take him climbing. I never asked him to take me kayaking.
Even though I agreed, I wasn’t sure if going kayaking would actually come to fruition. So I just nodded and tried not to roll my eyes too much as he proceeded — on practically a weekly basis — to mention to someone that we’d be going kayaking, tag me in some kayaking Instagram video, or start a statement with, “So when we go kayaking…” I was scared to go. Petrified, actually.
This past weekend, he was really pushing it. He and our friend Gen (short for Genevieve) were planning on kayaking Sunday morning — would I come? I kept being non-committal about it, saying that I couldn’t get the gear, might have to work, etc. Once he was able to gather the necessary gear for me, there really was no excuse. My excuse was that I was really, really afraid. I started getting snippy with him about it, and he asked me if he’d done something wrong. No, not at all. But he had to understand that I really didn’t want to kayak. I just felt that I should. I was doing it because he wanted me to try it. Because after graduating, I won’t have the knowledgeable friends nor equipment to just go kayaking on a Monday morning. Because I’m trying to do one thing every day that scares me.
We left at 7:00 am. Anxiety ate at me the entire way. The weather was cold, gray, windy. We originally were going to run a section of river in Cañon City that many beginners do, Spike Buck to Park Dale. I was gulping at the sight of some of the rapids as we drove by. We got out of the car and were freezing. We looked at each other, none of us really wanting to back out, none of us really itching to get into the cold water, either. We ended up electing to go to the “play park” — essentially a small section of rapids where you can practice skills and tricks.
In the parking lot, we unloaded the kayaks and got dressed. Wool socks, neoprene booties. Pants, two fleeces, a dry suit. A helmet on top. Spray skirt. I felt positively snowman-like, growing more and more fearful. At least I wasn’t as cold.
At last, we got into our boats and slipped into the water. As Jesse explained the kind of strokes I should make, which direction to aim for, and how I should angle my body, my boat got slightly sucked into a rapid behind us. I immediately started panicking. My eyes were popping out of my head as I yelled, “I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared!” I felt like I was five years old. Jesse and Gen remained utterly calm and patient throughout.
When I finally mustered the courage to proceed down the river, I immediately panicked again. I bumped into a rock, started veering sideways, and yelled some more. When I reached an eddy (a calm section of river behind an object such as a rock), I was hyperventilating and nearly in tears. Gen led me through breathing exercises and the two of them waited probably at least a good 20 minutes before I could finally will myself to continue.
Thankfully, things improved. We went through maybe three more small rapid sections, and with each one, I gained more confidence following Jesse’s line. I was decent at entering and exiting the eddies, remembering some of the technique from raft training. At the final rapid, the biggest of them all, I determinedly pushed through, straight on, with no issue. I felt proud and also incredibly wimpy. We had gone maybe a quarter mile down the river? Maybe? But I didn’t flip. And I decided I would go to roll session that night, to redeem myself on the wet exit and practice strokes.
We three went to roll session together, and the redemption happened. I told the kayak instructor, Rowan, that it had taken me from the first month of freshman year to the final month of senior year to redeem myself.
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The next time I think I’m too afraid to do something, I think I’ll look back at this experience the same way as I did my rollercoaster and flu shot fears. In other words, I’ll ask myself: is this activity really that scary, or have I just let time hype the fear up in my mind? I think life is too short not to ask this question and not to take the risk, so long as the activity itself is safe.
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I’m not going to become a whitewater kayaker. I’m not going to pursue whitewater sports. But that doesn’t mean I’m done rafting or kayaking any time soon.
