I knew the rest of the boat, too, even for all its flaws. I knew the flatter bottom made it tippy. It had a bow that sliced into the rapids in a grabby way that often flipped me, even in smaller rapids. I knew all the ways it fell short, and that knowledge had been earned the hard way, through a thousand hours of flipping, swimming, crashing into rocks and gasping for air, and countless mornings spent with my heart exploding out of my chest, trying to choke back the dread that burned in my throat and threatened to send my breakfast spewing back out. It wasn’t just a boat. It represented everything I had been working for, everything I had gained up to this point. Now Rob was trying to open yet another door and shove me through it. Behind me was what I knew, but through the door was just more darkness and fear. The intellectual side of my brain told me I couldn’t be seriously injured at the Whitewater Center. The worst thing was a swim, resulting in bloody knees and elbows. But, if it didn’t work, if it led to disaster, the door through which I needed to go to one day kayak down the Grand Canyon might close, this time for good.

As usual, Rob was relentless. As I kept arguing against it, I knew I was being worn down. Finally, convinced I was outplayed, I gave in. I started with a boat similar to mine and began adding new variables each run. “I think you may like this one,” Rob said as I slid into a boat a bit shorter than mine with a fat bow. As I paddled, I found myself riding smoothly through the rapids. The bow had so much volume; I’d bust through the waves and quickly resurface on the other side. Even when I got sideways, the round surface was more forgiving and kept me upright long enough to throw a hard brace. I was feeling more confident as I paddled through rapids that had previously felt violent and explosive. Now I bobbed through them like a cork. I had my first complete run that afternoon—no flips, no swims.