There were times when I considered giving it up. There was this nagging insistent feeling that what I was doing was simply a waste of time. I am glad that I continued. My life changed dramatically in the past four years. I feel incredibly lucky to have had so many opportunities to see and do things I never imagined I would have the chance to do. I am thankful for the friendships I forged over the past several years. My friends are often my inspiration for doing, exploring, and seeking the truth in life. Paddling whitewater often seems the glue that keeps us all together, but over the years our friendships have grown far beyond the river.
I moved to Bethesda, Maryland when I was twenty-five years old. In all these years, I never really felt like I moved to Bethesda. I always felt like I moved to the river. I remember my first night in my old apartment at Landon. I put my boat on my Jeep and asked for directions to the river. I pulled in the parking lot and carried down to Sandy Beach. I surfed a few waves around S-turn rapid, and met an old guy named Frank. He had long scraggly white hair, and a peppered beard. He had an old school surf boat. It was a warm summer night. We laughed and surfed until dark. The sunset in the gorge was beautiful. I was completely hooked.
It is an interesting thought; the river has been the most persistent presence in my life since I started all this. It never leaves. It is always flowing. It is always there. It is always calling me back. I have driven to the river feeling brave. I have driven to the river feeling sad. I have driven to the river feeling angry, lost, and confused. In every instance, I left feeling a little better than I did when I arrived.
None of us ever really know what's over the next horizon line. I feel like I spent a lot of my twenties seeking out new horizons and running most of them blind and backwards. I broke a lot of boats, drank a lot of beers, slept on the ground in a lot of different places, and broke my own heart more times than I care to admit to even those that are closest.
The river flows on though. There is no slowing it down, no holding it back, and whatever I was before, I know that I am now not the same. I am bits and pieces of all the rapids I ran clean, my worst swims, and all the times I hiked out. I am the best and worst of what I have always been, but just a little bit different every day.
I think most of us are this way.
So, I suppose I shall mark this post with a toast: to falling apart and pulling your heart back together.
I hit the river this afternoon. It was cold and I was alone...
but that was just an illusion.
'Keep it together Mayer, keep it together'.
Here's to one-hundred, and the best yet to come.
Cold and Alone from Brett Mayer-Aschhoff on Vimeo.
