Raft Training at 48: Where My Pride Goes to Die and My Biceps Go to Cry
On Day 6 of raft guide training, I found myself in my car, sobbing into a pair of octopus-printed underwear. Don’t worry, they were clean, but they were the only tissue-like object within reach. That’s just where I was that day.
That moment hit like a rogue wave: the snot, the tears, the creeping doubt. What the hell am I doing? Am I really walking away from a steady job at my age? Is this an actual midlife crisis or just an elaborate cardio-based tantrum?
Honestly, it might be both.
I am in the process of leaving my role as the top dog at an animal shelter and training as a whitewater rafting guide on my days off. It feels bold. Brave. Maybe a little unhinged. I’m 48, the second-oldest person in a trainee group full of fearless twenty-somethings with enviable core strength and no apparent fear of drowning or falling off the top of a bus.
The first few days were chaos. By Day 3, I was still struggling to remember which side was left and which was right. My blue helmet had duct tape on it with my name scrawled in Sharpie, like I was headed to summer camp for emotionally unstable adults. Meanwhile, one of the guides, Sara, was barking commands like “Paddle hard right!”, while casually doing handstands mid-rapid.
I wish I were exaggerating.
Sara was all grace and grit. I was just trying not to faceplant. And the more I struggled, the louder that inner voice got: Are you sure about this? Maybe go back to something you’re actually good at? It’s not too late….yet.
To make things worse, our main trainer looked like Jim Belushi and acted like his crankier cousin. He clearly loved his job but seemed committed to never getting wet and made it weirdly personal when trainees failed. One day, I returned to find that he had unceremoniously quit training the rookies. No explanation, just “I’m not training you anymore,” with the emotional tone of a grocery store self-checkout.
The establishment’s solution was to ask other guides if the rookies could go along with them and actual real live guests to learn the ropes. Three said yes that same day, and I learned something different from each of them. Without guiding hours, my certification would take longer—but I was learning the intangibles: showmanship, timing, and how to read a boat full of nervous tourists. The next day was a slow day. I arrived at 9 in the morning, but another guide didn’t let me ride with her until 1:30. What a waste of time!
There’s someone in training who seems to take pleasure in my struggle. There’s always one, right?
And I get it. I used to be someone like that.
Which makes this even more important: I don’t want to be her anymore.
I want to stay soft.
I want to suck at something and keep going anyway.
Still, it’s humbling to go from being the person who knew everything in one job to the slowest learner in a helmet and wet shoes. My house is a disaster. My body hurts in new places every day. My ego? Oh, my poor, fragile ego is taking the kind of beating you only get from starting over.
And yet... maybe that’s the point.
That moment in my car with the octopus underwear was more than just a meltdown. It was a release. A reckoning. And a tiny, ridiculous, mucus-covered reminder that growth doesn’t always look graceful or dry.
I’ve set a goal to get certified by June 20th which not so coincidentally is my last day at the shelter. Whether I make it or not, this journey is already changing me. The season ends Labor Day. By then, maybe I’ll be a full-fledged guide. Maybe I’ll be making money from my writing. Maybe both. (Manifesting so very hard.)
Either way, I’m paddling forward—awkwardly, stubbornly, sometimes tearfully, but always with heart.
To anyone else reinventing themselves in midlife, in public, in the middle of a literal or figurative river: I see you. Positive vibes and dry clothes heading your way.
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