What’s the worst that can happen? It was the summer of 1995, I was 15 and we were on a family whitewater rafting adventure. It should be noted that at the time I was not the adventurous type. I preferred to play it safe. My goal was to sit in the back of the raft and give the illusion of me “grabbing the rapids”, as the guide so eloquently put it.  That is until I somehow found myself in the front of the raft. Yep, that’s right, me, Miss play-it-safe who wanted nothing to do with this boat ride was suddenly seated front row of the rapids. Meanwhile, the rest of my family seemed cozy taking the side and rear seats of the raft.  As the distance between the raft and land increased the sweat began to bead on my brows, my hands started to tingle, my heart was leaping outside my chest, and my best defense mechanism was to just play possum. I sat there oar in hand, dumbfounded, thinking, what’s the worst that could happen? And then I envisioned the worst. I could fall out of the raft. I could hit my head on a rock. I could break a bone, or you know, die! To say I wasn’t prepared for what happened next is an understatement.