Part of me wanted to be happy for this Lonnie guy. It wasn’t all about being first, I thought. This was a sign that blind people were coming on strong, breaking through barriers, surpassing expectations, even my own accomplishments. It was a good thing for the world, I told myself, but close up, it still stung. I had already received a lot of media attention surrounding my kayaking, and I had also gotten some new kayaking sponsors. I felt deflated and a little embarrassed. All the endless hours of training and bleeding may have been for nothing.

I thought about all the massive preparation it had taken to get ready for this kayaking project: multiple trips to the Green River, the Usumacinta in Mexico, the U.S. National Whitewater Center, and hundreds of hours training on my local rivers. It had taken everything I had to keep going. Who is this other blind kayaker here to ruin my outing? I asked silently. But an idea was beginning to brew, and as it got stronger, I could feel energy and motivation returning to my body. When I get home, I thought, maybe I’ll give this guy, this Lonnie Bedwell from Indiana, a call.

20

I did call Lonnie Bedwell. I congratulated him on his successful trip and asked if he’d like to meet that spring at the U.S. National Whitewater Center. Lonnie was game and agreed right away. When Rob and I arrived, Lonnie and his kayaking partner were waiting in front of the gear room. I heard Lonnie’s country accent, with the little hint of a joke that was always present in his crackly voice. We’d been together just a couple of minutes when he asked, “Erik, what’s the scariest thing you can do to a blind person?”

“Put them in a kayak in the middle of white water?” I immediately answered.

“No. That’s second.” He laughed. “The scariest thing is when someone puts a plunger in the toilet without telling you,” he answered, bursting into his raspy cackle.

Over the next few days, Lonnie and I took runs down the channel, and I noticed how different our kayaking styles were. Lonnie wasn’t a high-tech guy. He told me he didn’t even have a cell phone. He didn’t use radios for kayaking, but instead preferred one guide right in front of him yelling at the top of his lungs, “On me! On me!” He had another kayaker just behind him yelling micro-commands like “Small left! Small right!” If Lonnie was off-line, his front guide borrowed military language to yell, “Gun sights on me!” Lonnie told me his front guide gave him more confidence to go out into the rapids, to have a sound to track.