The river was in high flood. It was roaring, yellow and angry. The sky was gunmetal grey, and the day felt sullen, like nature was in a bad mood. The mood rubbed off on me, so nothing felt right.

I knew getting in a kayak on that river, on that day, was a bad idea. I even knew I would probably get in trouble and maybe even die. I actually thought that, before I went. I put on a wetsuit, a life-vest, neoprene boots and a helmet. Then we took the kayaks upstream and put them into the racing brown river.

The kayak was an ocean racer, plastic, with a polystyrene column up the middle between my legs. It was a pretty tight fit, and my legs didn’t have a lot of room to move. I’d never used it before. We pushed off from the bank and the river took us. My companion streaked ahead, while I blundered along, trying to keep the long boat straight in the fierce current. I don’t remember how long I lasted but it wasn’t more than a few minutes before the kayak went sideways and swept into a cluster of low overhanging branches. Trying to fend myself off I dropped my paddle and, as the branches caught me the kayak overturned and suddenly I was underwater.

I’m not trained to do eskimo rolls and I didn’t even have a paddle. There was no way I could right the boat, but in my panic I tried. I nearly broke my back trying to get my head up to the surface for a breath but it was futile. The boat was belting along sideways in the muddy racing stream and I could feel my helmet thumping now and then against rocks and whatever else was below the surface. I wasted a lot of precious time, energy and oxygen during this period of panic before some higher self seemed to step into the driver’s seat of my brain.

It was as if somebody much smarter than me had taken control and shut down my panic on the spot. I realised in that moment that I was seconds away from unconsciousness and probable death. I realised there was nobody anywhere who could help me. The higher me, now in charge, ordered me to stop struggling, to relax and conserve what little oxygen remained available in my straining lungs. Struggling was never going to save me so the best I could do was relax and think. Perhaps – unlikely as it seemed – I would think of something better to do. As it turned out I didn’t have to. As soon as I obeyed the order and let my entire body go flaccid I felt my legs loosen in the trap of the upside-down boat, which was now moving slightly faster on the surface than my body was travelling underwater. I got one leg free, then the other, then bobbed to the surface. I realised then that struggling had created the force that had been trapping me, setting up a dynamic of forces and geometry that my mere muscles could never defeat.

The sense of relief was indescribable, and coloured by surprise that I had actually escaped from what had seemed like a checkmate on my life. It was clear to me that I owed my life to that higher self I felt take over my mind at the final instant. I flailed towards a large rock midstream and clung to it for minutes, sucking in air while the kayak hurtled downstream by itself. My companion caught it and held it. Eventually I made my way back to the boat, took it to the shore and emptied it, before climbing back in. And then I decided, as I eyeballed the rapids ahead, that I was not going on with the exercise.

I was as close to death that day as I’ve ever been, and I still regard my reprieve as a sort of miracle.

Was there a lesson to be learned from the experience? I think so.

Sometimes surrender is the only salvation.

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