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'FLOW' IS THE PSYCHOLOGIST'S TERM for a state of mind that is the preserve of the adventure athlete, but is touched by others. It's a state of optimal performance that occurs when skills and challenge meet, and this is what it's like...

 

We’d driven to the river, rain beating a tattoo on the roof of the Bighorn, wipers tapping double time, lights on in the early winter afternoon. A little rain is good; it turns a fairly straightforward paddle into a nice whitewater run, but twenty-four hours of downpour

means… hold on, boys. Chris, Val, Simon and I were all nerves and gallows humour, full of Lord’s prayers, last rites, final wills and farewells to families. Are we sure about this?

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Simon is first to launch into the exploding brown maelstrom that used to be a river. I catch a quick glimpse of him capsizing on the eddy line as I’m struggling with my spray deck, and get the giggles. Chris is getting into his kayak next to me. His eyes are wide and distressingly vacant, but he’s grinning. "This is serious!"

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Yep. I had noticed. I push off into the current, a duffek turn into the mess of seething dirty whitewater. In an instant, the current grabs the stern of my kayak and I’m turned upside down and rolling. Ugh. That water is c-c-cold!

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I’ve got to get lined up for the first rapid. There’s a horizon on the river; the river drops away below the level that I can see from the kayak, and I need to get to the other side of the river before I can see the line to take down through the whitewater. A few frantic paddle strokes, a little surf on a pressure wave and a bow draw has me in the relative calm of an eddy above the drop. There’s a tiger pacing in my guts, and below me the confusion of exploding waves, the stoppers and holes, the steepness of the drop, the volume of water and its freight-train roar is simply intimidating. I see consequence, and I'm scared. I wait, looking at the rapid, dividing it into moves that I must make and planning how best to run it. I look for where I need to be on the river and figure the strokes and hip angles I need to make it happen. I try to shift my focus, to see what is required – skill – and I know that although I’m right on the edge, if I do everything just right, it can be done. 

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As the kayak bobs in the eddy, I feel myself winding up to go. I imagine myself in the rapid, the sensation and power of the water, what it will feel like, the slam of the features against the hull and the cold slap of water on my face. In my mind, I feel myself making the moves, the bracing, the lifting of the rails of the kayak with my hips… and as always happens, my attention narrows and I no longer notice the cold or the rain or the roaring and time becomes elastic, stretching and slowing down. The mist comes down, something inside clicks into place. Everything not concerned with the next minute of running the rapid strips away, and a thick mental veil is drawn over everything else in the world, anything that isn’t river and response. I feel alert and powerful, almost aching to start, relaxed but totally involved. The feeling is born from a sense that I can do this, but it’s something much, much greater: the right chemicals – beyond adrenaline or endorphins – perhaps, or maybe some normally dormant pathway to some special part of the brain awakens, switching on the most optimum state of mind for operating at the edges of possibility: a mix of creativity, focus, total involvement in the moment, and something close to joy. Now. I’m ready.

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My arms seem to be acting of their own accord, slicing the paddle blade through the water. The kayak edges, turns into the current and foaming torrent. Every stroke of the paddle and lean of the hips seems to happen of its own accord, the kayak runs right on the line, and I feel fresh and happy and alive.

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My kayak is nosed onto the grass. Simon is there, kayak leaning against a tree, paddle still in his hands. Slowly, the rest of the world comes back into focus. It is still raining. I’m cold, my hands are shaking slightly. There is a damp smell from the trees, which are etched in sharp relief against the misty valley behind them. I watch rain dripping from leaves. Everything looks clear and new, as if I’m seeing it for the first time. Val is nearly here and Chris is paddling hard, the last few strokes to the bank, on my right. His eyes are still bulging. He’s a Man Who Knows The Feeling, currently looking for himself in the Twilight Zone.

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“Wow!! Man! We’ve got to run that again!”

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