January 25

When I was younger, my family would take weekend camping trips to the Colorado River near Blythe, CA. We would try to go at least once a summer, but always hoped for more. My family never went on extravagant cruises or vacations to the Bahamas or Hawaii, but in my eye, these trips were just as special.

My mom would pack all of the food, drinks, and anything else she could before my dad would get home on the Friday that we planned on leaving. My dad drove his truck into work each day, so we had to wait for him to get home before we could load the heavier items. When he would get home, we would start the loading process. My dad, by the way, is an expert packer. He knows exactly how to arrange everything in a tight space to make it all fit perfectly snug and secure.

Everything we needed for the weekend, we could fit into the bed of my dad's truck. This is because my family went camping the right way. We didn't own an RV so we could watch TV and take showers. We went camping in a tent and slept on the ground. We went to the bathroom in the bushes and took showers in the river. That was camping.

After loading everything into my dad's truck (including our inflatable red Zodiac boat and 25-horsepower outboard motor) he would take a shower and we would be on our way. We would usually be on the road anywhere from 6:30 to 7:30. For most of my childhood, my dad drove a white 1988 Chevrolet Silverado. There was one bench seat in the cab where my dad drove, I sat next to him, my sister sat to my right and shared the passenger seat belt with my mom. It was a pretty tight fit, especially as the years went by and my sister and I grew.

The trek usually lasted about three and a half hours with one stop for a Taco Bell dinner in El Centro. Once we got off of the main highway and crossed the river that separated California and Arizona, we would spend about a half an hour looking for a vacant campsite. You see, we didn't go to a campground that had plumbing, picnic tables, and lights. We would slowly drive down a pitch-black gravel road that ran along the east side of the river's edge. The only signs of life you could see were illuminated by my dad's headlights as tall, ominous bushes that lined either side of the dusty and sometimes uneven road slowly crept by.

About every hundred yards or so, there would be a break in the bushes on the left-hand side and an extremely narrow "drive-way" would break off of the main road and snake its way down towards the river bank. At every opening, my dad would put the truck into four-wheel drive and slowly descend into the darkness hoping not to see any vehicles in the clearing. We would go through this motion of creeping into each camp until we found a clearing that was private enough and didn't have any other campers already occupying the space.

Once we found our new home for the weekend, Dad would park the truck to the side of the clearing, find the lantern in the truck's bed and shed light throughout the dark campsite. Dad would let our Yellow Labrador Retriever out of his crate and we would laugh as Sport made a beeline towards the dark water for a late night swim. We would then lie a tarp down on the spot where we wanted to sleep and work together to assemble the tent that was to sit on top of the blue ground cover. My mom would then climb inside to unpack bags of clothes and line the ground with blankets. My dad, my sister, and I would set up our foldaway table, inflate mattresses, and do anything else we could with virtually zero light. Before climbing in bed, the four of us would silently sit around in folding chairs, drink ice cold water, and listen to the river softly lap the shores as a curious dog would run through bushes, splash in water, and sniff everything.

My dad always woke before the rest of us. I can still hear that high-pitched zipper at 5:45 in the morning as he and Sport would leave the tent. It would usually take me another half an hour to get up and help him start setting up the canopy that would provide protection from the harsh sunlight for the weekend. Once we had all of the stakes hammered into the sand, we would start on the exhausting task of inflating our boat. We had a pump that we were able to connect to a car battery, but it still took a long time to inflate and assemble the floorboards. Once inflated, we would attach tires to the stern of the red boat and struggle to install the heavy motor. I would then stand at the stern and keep the boat from running away on us as my dad would lift the bow and let the weight of the boat take itself to the water's edge. This was always the best time to get out on the water and go for a ski. It was still early enough where there weren't any other people out so the water was smooth as glass. It was on one of these first runs that I had the worst experience of my life on water.

I chose to ride the knee ski for my first run that morning. A knee ski looks almost identical to a wakeboard except it doesn't have any boots. It's a fiberglass board with a soft, cushion covering the top surface and a Velcro strap that goes from one side to the other to keep the board and rider connected. The rider tucks his feet under his legs where he sits on his shins. He then straps the Velcro seat belt over his thighs and holds onto a rope that is pulled by the boat.

I was all strapped in and sitting on the beach with the nose of the knee ski just barely in the water. The rope in my hands extended out into the river where it was attached to the Zodiac. "Hit it!" I yelled and my dad revved the 25-horse powered beast. As the slack from the rope was pulled taut, I gripped the handle tightly and the knee ski did everything in its power to stay on the beach. I leaned my weight back as the board slowly scraped along the sand and pulled up on my strapped-in knees to get the nose to rise above the surface of the water. As the friction between board and sand weakened, the nose shot above the water and I was riding!

My dad drove the boat up stream for a few hundred yards as I tried to get comfortable in the impossible-to-get-comfortable riding position of a knee ski. The rocky banks of California flew by on my left and the brown bushes of the Arizona side waved as we passed. As I made my way outside of the wake, my dad gave the signal that he was turning us around to head back downstream and towards camp. This is a signal that the driver gives with his right arm where he raises his hand toward the sky and makes a circular motion. This is a signal that is used for the safety of the rider and he can expect what is about to come. This is a signal that I didn't see.

I was gliding on the smooth surface to the right of the wake and adjusting my strap. My dad made the signal and then turned a wide left to take us downstream. I didn't realize what was happening until I felt gravity's pull which sent me flying to the outside of the circle that I was creating at the end of the rope. When you swing a rope with a weight on its end, the weight travels much faster than the end of rope you are holding. That's what happened with me. I was the weight on the end of a rope that was being swung by the turning of the boat.

I stared in terror as the California banks came closer and closer at an alarmingly quick rate. It's funny the thoughts that go on in someone's head in the heat of the moment. I could have easily let go of the rope and been fine. Instead I thought (and this actually went through my head), I'll just hang on to the rope and use the board as protection as I ski up the rocky bank and back down to the water. As you can imagine, it didn't work as planned.

The next thing I knew, I was floating in the water and screaming. I had let go of the rope and my dad was circling back to get me. The knee ski had flown off and was floating somewhere down stream. I couldn't move my legs as I bobbed in the water being kept afloat by my life jacket. To make a long story short, I didn't break anything. I was incredibly lucky to end up with just a few nasty scars on my shins as reminders of my stupidity.

The rest of the weekend was pretty much lost for me. I couldn't go knee skiing any more because my legs were in so much pain. I couldn't even strap on the water skis because I had cut up one of my ankles pretty badly and the boots of the ski would have been pure torture. I had to be on flag duty for the remainder of weekend and watch everyone else have all the fun.

When I think back on the days of my childhood, our trips to the river are some of my favorite memories; with the exception of this one event. The trips were usually so simple and relaxing. I can only hope that I can continue the tradition of camping trips to the river with my kids some day. I'll just make sure that whatever kid is skiing at the time sees the signal.