elder tubing on the green river
by margaret abruzzi

My daughter and granddaughter have been tubing many times this summer, always inviting me along, until one hot Sunday I can no longer resist their description of the quiet, cool river and floating along with the lazy current. I have some misgivings, having gone tubing years before, and I yet remember scraping my knees on rocks and tipping over frequently. “But this river is different,” they say. “It’s perfect for tubing and besides, you can touch the bottom, so it’s safe.” And maybe, I think, age should not be a deterrent to a sixty-five year old grandmother. I will strike out with enthusiasm for a change, have fun with my family and not stay at home in the shade sipping iced tea with a good novel at my side.

As we drive down to the Green River, I glimpse through the trees below us families in tubes strung together, chatting, laughing under a bright sunny sky. This, I decide, is going to be far different from my miserable trip of earlier years.

Getting into the tube requires more skill than I think. It doesn’t work to sit daintily on the edge. This is a sure fire way to squirt the tube out from under you and watch it float away on its own journey. I make a hop, a leap of faith, and I’m afloat. I’m free on the soothing river, lacy canopy of trees above, the sun warming my skin. My bottom is pretty cold though as I first hit the water. I watch middle-aged couples carry kayaks down to the water but most people are young, exceedingly cheerful and having a very good time. The only people my age I see are sitting comfortably together, dabbing at watercolors, easels lined up in a row on the bank. I have been wished a blessed day more than a few times by the friendly helpers handing out tubes so I float out with confidence.

We set off slowly, bobbing up and down in the current. I have to bend myself into a kind of 'V' shape, more like a check mark, legs dangling over the side, while my daughter Aldona and twelve year old granddaughter Carney preside like reincarnations of Buddha, faces upturned to the sun, serene in the lotus position. Fellow tubers bump alongside and it’s pleasant to pass the time of day. One young man, stretched out across his tube, beer in hand, confides to me, as he gazes up at the sky: “This is the best place in the whole world. There’s not a thing else I’d rather do".Although I don’t agree, I can see his point of view. There are a lot worse things I can think of doing on such a glorious day as I watch Carney dive out of her tube, pop up in the middle with a big smile and give a good imitation of Esther Williams or Free Willy, according to your generation. I have no such ambition. I am firmly attached to my float, white knuckles gripping onto the handles and I plan to stay put.

“Close your eyes and let the river take over Mom,” says my daughter Aldona. I am prepared to float with the current because there is no other choice, but close my eyes? I think not. I wonder why I always seem to be floating backward not able to see the direction I’m headed, but once in the tube I’m resigned to the fact that there is nothing to do but let the current take me where it wants. This is what is so relaxing about tubing, claims my daughter.

In general, I like to have a little more control than this, is my thought as the breeze freshens, the sun disappears and the current grows stronger. I search the water for a guiding stick of some kind and at Carney’s urging I grasp at the emerging rocks in an effort to slow down but they are too slippery. It’s too late, the river is dropping quite a bit and I’m headed for the rapids.

Aldona has made no mention of rapids but I should have figured this out when the bus took us to our starting destination by winding up the mountain for about five miles. Unseen rocks buffet my bottom, and twigs poke up from submerged trees scratching my legs. Only now do I realize that this is not going to be the trip that I had imagined. I improvise and develop the technique of raising my bottom and sticking my legs straight up in the air to avoid breaking them over the rocks. Aldona is a little worried about me. I guess she sees the look of terror on my face. I have never been able to hide my feelings very well. She and Carney wait for me by hanging on to a tree until I bump by. I head directly into overhanging branches, slightly scraping my face in passing and thud into the bank where, mercifully I am immobilized. We make a family decision to keep together by holding on to the string that the tubing company has so thoughtfully provided.

I don’t know how I let go of the string; that’s not important, but I find myself floating away from the others. The current pulls them toward the opposite bank while I, guided by some unseen hand, disappear from their sight, floating toward an eddy leading nowhere. I am beached, high but not dry on the muddy shore. Looking around in this backwater I glance at the bank not a couple of feet away where a copperhead is draped in languid ease, it’s browns, and yes, copper tones blending in beautiful and complete camouflage. The snake can’t help but notice my purple bathing suit, white legs and hair, bright yellow and blue tube. So there I am, face to face with a venomous snake. I think the snake wants to blend into the background as much as I because it does what snakes do so well, it just lies there frightening me. I can’t blend in and disappear into the background, so having conceded that my companion snake is aware of my presence and could spring into activity at any moment, I grab a rotting tree branch and spin it above my head like a ninja. Now what? Do I think the whirling stick will confuse the snake? The stick plucked out of the muck showers me with mud and lichen and flakes of rotting bark. But appearances don’t matter right now. More action is called for since the snake remains unimpressed. I lever myself out of the tube, I’m sure to the great amusement of the snake, drag it out around the corner of my lagoon, leap back in quickly before it can be swept away in the current and pole away from the bank with my miraculous stick.

I find Aldona and Carney further down, holding on for dear life to an overhanging tree yet again and shouting at the top of their lungs “Mom,” “Grandma.” They admonish me for giving them such a scare and remark on my unkempt appearance. Carney says succinctly “You’re dirty, Grandma.” I make a note of the role reversal. My daughter firmly strings my tube to hers and I commence an ignominious backward progress.

The river takes a wide turn. Along the banks, standing on rocks in the river are groups of celebrating young people drinking to the day, leaping from trees, some bare breasted, to rousing cheers. It’s fortunate that my daughter notices the look of disapproval on my face. I am, after all, being showered and my tube rocked by dropping bodies. “Mom, you don’t want to let disdain show on your face,” and I can see what she means as the river takes me toward a friendly sun-tanned youth standing on a huge boulder in the middle of the river. I will need his cooperation to get around this new obstacle. I compose my features into what I hope is neutrality. I apologize for bumping into his rock and he obligingly pushes me on my way after inviting us to join his party. He looks up at the sky guffawing, hands on hips, as I float downriver. “It’s probably the lichen on your head,” Aldona enlightens me. As it happens, the river will take care of my messy appearance.

The sun comes out again and as we leave the crowds behind, we revel in the calm waters, the peaceful sound of birdsong. A large white owl feather wafts from a tree and lands on my daughter’s tube. I begin to relax a little but at the same time wonder if we can move along a bit faster. My neck and back begin to ache after hours on the water. My daughter, a massage therapist, can actually identify the muscles involved with their long proper Latin names. “Why don’t you sit up on the tube?” is her suggestion. I move conservatively. “No, more,” she says, “try to sit upright on the edge of the tube.” With a great heave I tip over backward into the Green River.

My disorientation is complete as I spin around helpless in the rushing dismal water. “So is this what drowning feels like?” becomes a dark thought. (Although my daughter later says she was right there to save me and I was in no danger.) My breath is knocked out of me by shock and cold. Hands grab at me and after what seems like forever I see the tube above and hook my arm over one side. I’m still clutching my stick. I suck in huge gulps of air. Carney exhorts, “Duck under and come up into the middle Grandma, get up on top, that’s the only way.” “Hurry Mom,” shouts Aldona , “the rapids are ahead, get on top, hurry. Let go of the stick.” I don’t remember how I manage to climb back on the top of the tube but my motivation is strong enough, and survive the rapids yet again I do, even though my tube is the wrong way up with the plastic handles under the water running interference with submerged rocks.

Once back at the campground I feel exhilarated. Apart from a near-drowning, a stand-off with a venomous snake, sore buttocks, a scraped slightly bleeding hip and the alarming sight of humans dropping out of trees from great heights near my tube, I wouldn’t have missed this time on the river for the world. The pure rush of joy and sense of deliverance on reaching land has to be experienced to be believed. Besides, this is now part of family lore, tubing Grandma.

 

I was born in England in 1939, am a naturalized American and first lived in Massachusetts for over 20 years before retiring to Western North Carolina with my husband. He died three years ago and I now live with my daughter and granddaughters in Asheville.