The Most Dangerous Thing
I made this video for an assignment for my class CMP 6027: Biblical Preaching with Dr. Aaron Wymer (Emmanuel Christian Seminary, Johnson City, Tennessee). My assignment was to create a video telling about the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done!
We were twenty-two and basking in the glow of our wedding three days earlier. Madly in love and full of excitement at the start of our New Zealand honeymoon adventure, we paid little attention to our rental car agreement which noted that our liability would be voided if we drove on Skippers Canyon Road. We had no experience or even knowledge of white-water rafting but naively purchased tickets to shoot the Shotover River grade 4-5 rapids (recommended skill level: full mastery of rafting) (transportation and lunch included). I was determined to overcome my fear of water, after “the incident” in which Paul had, two years earlier, tried to help me swim across the mouth of a river about 100 meters from the Pacific Ocean (a source of much amusement to our six children many years later, “the site of Mummy & Daddy’s near drowning”).
We squeezed into our wetsuits and climbed into the four-wheel drive along with our guide and six fellow rafters. Little did I realize as I mentally prepared for our water adventure that Skippers Canyon Road was one of the 22 most dangerous roads in the world. We grew alarmed as the driver seemed to take the tight curves on this narrow, unsealed gravel path cut into the sheer cliff face way too casually. Our feet reached for invisible brake pedals in the hopes that the driver would opt for a much slower and safer speed, especially because of the notable absence of any metal guardrails at the edge of the huge drop to our river in the ravine hundreds of meters below.
More troubling were the times when we passed a car or truck going the other way. Over a century earlier, gold miners had hand carved an adequately wide 17-kilometer road in the middle of the vertical escarpment. Meeting an oncoming vehicle on a road such as this in 1985, though, meant that our wheels adjacent to the abyss crawled uncomfortably close to the ragged canyon edge. All eight passengers instinctively leaned away from the canyon, scarcely breathing, deafened by the pounding of our own hearts. In spite of the cool temperatures, sweat dripped from our pores. It didn’t help that Paul and I were sitting in the rear of the vehicle behind the wheel well, at times our bodies physically located over the edge. We were by now fully awake and alert and reassured each other of our love “till death us do part.” Largely immobilized by terror, we made no photographic record of our day in those incredibly beautiful surroundings, counted among the most scenic destinations in the world.
When we reached the river, all fears related to rafting evaporated. We almost kissed the ground in gratitude for God’s amazing grace as our shaky legs tumbled us out of the cab. Grilled burgers restored our strength, courage, and determination. We dutifully donned our helmets and lifejackets, perched with our paddles on the periphery of the raft, and zipped through the thrilling and thrumming rapids. When I toppled into the raft while navigating the longest rapid which included a 4 meter drop into a swirling cauldron, our guide, reading inexperience on my face, instructed me to “just stay there.” Waves of relief and gratitude swept over me, as I was able to rest, recline, and revel in the breathtaking beauty of summer skies and captivating cliffs, cocooned in the comfort and calm of our rubber raft, persistently propelled by the powerful Shotover River.
