"Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire." Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986), Argentinean author. "A New Refutation of Time," Labyrinths (1964).

Seeing the Pacuare from the perspective of my 15 year old man-child helped me. "Sweet!" he shouted as we caught our first glimpse of the river, rounding the last curve down a steep dirt road in a late model Toyota tourist bus. To my eye, the Pacuare looked more like the kind of ride I assiduously avoid at Disneyland.

While others about to journey down the river appeared to have no greater expertise than me, I wondered how many of them brushed with death during their last white water adventure.

It was summer, 1984, and I was working in a downtown San Francisco litigation firm as a "summer associate," hoping to be offered a permanent job after law school. As a perk, we were treated to a day "tubing" down the American River, near Sacramento. When we got to the launch site, operating instructions were limited: "When you get to the rapids, be sure to go feet first." Then one of the guys on the employment committee (the body charged with deciding whether to offer me a job at summer's end) briefly demonstrated how to use our hands as paddles. No life vests were provided.

The first hour went reasonably well, leaving aside a couple of excessively fast passes by some large rocks, exposed by the low water level. Then we entered a long, swift patch that was beyond my skill level. I tried to tell my feet to go first down the bumpy water hill, but the river had other plans. I was pushed sideways until my inner tube reached the ideal angle to be broad-sided by a wave. Lots of swirling water and a perfect connection between my sciatic nerve and a hard rock later, I was standing in a calm place in the river crying. Panic predominated, coupled with sharp, needle-like pains shooting down my left leg and out my baby toe. I had lost my composure and my sandals.

I was also embarrassed. I was vulnerable, out of control, in front of people I wanted to hire me, and I was worried that I wouldn't be perceived as having the right mix of machismo and thick skin.

My concerns were justified. As I cried, they pointed and laughed, finding my struggle to stay above water something resembling a sorority "rush" not a near death experience. I was told to go on, to "tough it out." Quitting didn't seem safe; I was surrounded by civil litigators. These are the professionals that are used to getting hit in the head with two by fours and continuing, without missing a beat. Irrespective of what was going on for me, their reality was simple: "Ina took a dunking, and must plow forward."

I didn't plow too far; the very next set of rapids dumped me. I was tossed into the American River again, swallowed several big gulps of water, and felt my back bang into another exposed rock. I was finally prepared to put my body before my desire to be employed, and told my companions I would wait for them at the side of the river. They left me there, bruised, scraped and shaky. Unsure when (or if) they would come back, I walked barefoot more than a mile up to a telephone at the side of the road, wincing every time my left foot touched the ground. I called someone I considered a friend to come get me, but it wasn't convenient. I walked back to the river and waited.

I had sciatic pain sufficient to put me in bed for two weeks and was medicated for several months thereafter. Stress brought on flare ups for the next 15 years; it was worst during my two pregnancies. It would be an understatement to say I wanted nothing to do with white water again.

So why did I agree to climb aboard the Pacuare River, in remote, central Costa Rica?

My heart rate was slightly elevated as we secured our valuables on the bus, and were outfitted with gear: a paddle with a plastic, soft-edged "T" at one end, a life vest, and helmet. Miguel, an enthusiastic fellow who seemed to have an ownership interest in the rafting company, called us over for final instructions: "We are going to do everything we can to insure your safety, but if you have doubts about going down this river, we have no problem with you stepping to the side now." An honest warning, if not legally binding in the United States. Then I remembered: we are in a jungle, in Costa Rica. He went on: "Once you start down this river, you cannot get off until we're finished, 18 miles from here. This is a wild place and there are steep canyons." So, I thought, the exit strategy I had used 22 years ago would not be available today. I quickly grocked that I would have to consciously chose to go down the Pacuare in an overgrown balloon fitted with wimpy ropes, despite my fear of repeating history.

I liked the initial configuration of the boat: my husband Fred in front on the right, and Fito, an experienced nature guide, on the left front. My son Elliot sat behind him, I was behind Elliot, and our 26 year old strapping Costa Rican guide with a small silver nose ring and glistening musculature, Fernando, behind me. My 16 year old daughter Becca was behind Fred on the right, and a woman we had never met before behind Becca.

They really know how to lull you into a false sense of security, these rafting guides. The first several minutes on the Pacuare, which we later learned is one of the world's top 10 white water rafting rivers, was positively idyllic. Morpho butterflies with six inch wing spans and iridescent blue wings that fly like puppets being pulled by strings from above. Luscious warm water, tumbling lovingly over rounded rocks like foam on a latte. The sun shone on the wide river as we wended our way past waterfalls, over-sized bromeliads, and brightly colored birds that don't live in North America. The air was sweet, full of prana. Fernando had us practice falling out of the boat on a smooth patch; we pulled each other back in, using the shoulders of the life vests as hand-holds. I thought "this is great": I get to conquer my fear of rafting in this beautiful place.

We navigated the first sets of class III and class IV rapids well. There was a fair number of "get downs", the command requiring everyone to leave their post, immediately squat in the center of the boat, holding tight to the "T" of the paddle and a rope attached to the raft. I also squeezed my eyes shut during "get downs", and held my breath; I didn't really want to know what was happening when our boat would get buried in churning water.

After making it through a set of rapids, we'd clink our paddles in the air like champagne glasses in victory. Elliot told me repeatedly how proud he was of me, and, at one point patted me on the knee and said: "See Mom, it's actually fun." Several times, Fernando held the back of my vest during the ride through the rapids, and I felt almost comfortable doing this thing I had avoided for 22 years. I became eager to prove that the past does not equal the future.

We stopped for lunch about half way, at around the 10 mile mark. The spread was impressively lavish under the circumstances. They turned over two rafts, covered them with flowered cotton tablecloths, and set up juicy watermelon, papaya and pineapple slices on one, and warm tortillas, bread, sandwich fillings, salsa, chips and trail mix with M&Ms on the other. Everyone was hungry.

After lunch, we got back in our rafts, just as the sun had warmed the inside of our life vests, the six boats launching in succession. We were the second boat out. Becca, anxious to move to the front of the raft, took Fito's spot on the upper left, across from Fred. Elliot moved behind Fred and Fito moved in front of me. The boat felt less stable in this configuration. My guard was down, my body heavily engaged in processing the meal. I paddled, half-heartedly. We went through a class III rapid without a hitch. Then we entered a long class IV, nicknamed "Indigestion," in honor of its proximity to the lunch spot. Fernando yelled for us to get down. My eyes were squeezed tight and I had what I thought was a vice grip on the rope attached to the inside of the raft, and my paddle. We were bumping along as if riding a bucking bronco when I found myself no longer in the boat, but underneath it, looking up at its blue rubber bottom. The raft and I were traveling together down that river, only I was no longer ensconced inside.

The people who were still in the boat emerged from the worst of the rapid to retake positions and realize I was gone. No-one on the boat had seen me leave, and no-one saw me now. Fernando blew the "man overboard" whistle and the safety kayakers started paddling to look for me. Meanwhile, under the boat, my eyes were open and I tried to find the safety straps on the side of the raft. No luck.

That was my last rational thought. In my head I heard Fernando's voice saying that if you fell in, you should relax. My ears heard nothing, no rushing water, nothing. All I saw was the glow of the water, illuminated by what must have been sky above. The water felt warm, enveloping, and I daresay, inviting. I must have been moving, but felt no movement. I lost track of my body and was drawn only to the bright light. I couldn't tell if I was holding my paddle because I had no awareness of my hands. I had no idea whether my feet were headed up or down the river. I didn't think about breathing or swallowing water, or even loved ones. I wasn't thinking. I was out of my body, the water taking me in. I did not choose to allow the water to carry me, but carry me it did.

In those moments without time, I was calm. I felt at ease, meditative, one with the river. I wasn't afraid. I really wasn't "anything", and yet I felt like everything, neither coming nor going, just being.

The people on the surface weren't relaxed. More than a minute had passed in human time, and still there wasn't any sign of me. Even Fernando hadn't seen me leave the boat; he had been preoccupied with staying aboard himself, as the wave that tossed me had also propelled him from his post, requiring his full strength to hold onto the safety strap. The boat behind us later reported that our raft hit a rapid, folded up like a spring loaded quesadilla, and then snapped open. I was ejected like a pop tart out of a hot toaster, three feet in the air before dropping into the Pacuare, just behind the raft.

Next I knew I was rudely thrust to the surface of the river, somehow still holding my paddle and gasping for air. On the surface, the foamy latte had transformed into a raging body of water that was big, fast, and alive. There were huge, grey rocks everywhere and I was moving way too quickly. I was, as they say, "Scared shitless," and suddenly aware of the insignificance of my little body compared to this force of nature. I wanted back in that boat more than anything. I was now fully conscious, cognizant of the raw power of the Pacuare. This made the American River look like a babbling brook.

Fernando steered the boat toward me and shouted for me to stay relaxed and to hold out my paddle to him. I transfixed on his face and outstretched hand. I willed my paddle and his hand to connect and felt him pull me towards the raft. He grabbed me by the shoulders of my life vest and tossed me in the boat like a herring. Everyone else was still paddling, keeping us going through the rapids.

Once we made it through, Fernando steered the raft to the side. I coughed hard. Several good gulps of the Pacuare were inside my throat, stomach, lungs. Eventually, I coughed so hard I lost my lunch. I felt better, and after several inhalations, my breathing pattern began approaching normal. My heart was still racing.

Unlike 22 years ago, everyone on the raft was compassionate and loving. There was no job to be awarded or denied, no-one to impress with my fearless nature. For my family, the fact that I'd done this at all, given my history, was impressive enough. Fred was grateful, deeply grateful, to see me. The kids assured me that "everything was going to be okay." Fernando allowed me some time to compose myself. He said I could sit out the next couple of rapids, but I decided to keep paddling, to keep pulling my weight. The Pacuare had swallowed me up and spit me back out, and I became committed to finishing what I'd started.

When we landed a couple of hours later, there were showers, cold beer and sodas, a slide show of the day's action I couldn't watch, and t-shirts. I bought one which said: "You only live once. Challenge yourself."

I felt more alive than ever as I bought that t-shirt, and had certainly challenged myself that day. While the past does not equal the future, and I guess I'll think twice before white water rafting again, I chose to go down the Pacuare because there were lessons I needed to learn that only a mighty river could teach me. Instead of being forever bound by my fears of fast water, I now know I can get thrown into a class IV rapid in a jungle river in a foreign country, and not just survive, but survive without a scratch. I know that I am profoundly blessed to have around me people who love and accept me for who I am, and who support me when I need them. I know that there is the possibility of bravery, even in the presence of fear. I understand that resistance is indeed futile. I learned that only in the letting go are we truly here. I had to let myself become one with that river before the river gave me back.

Ina Pockrass