Not a good time to remember
A couple of years ago I went on a whitewater rafting trip down the Rio Jacare in Brazil. It was the first time I had done it, and it turned out to be quite a thrill: bursts of adrenaline-pumping terror with nice calm drifts between them.

About half way down, the guide pulls the boat over to the side, in an area where the water flows shallowly over some flat rocks. He explains that we're now going to find out how to go down rapids without the aid of something I'd previously assumed to be essential equipment: a boat.

We line up at the edge of the rock shelf, and he explains the correct position for your legs - the key point being not to allow rocks to slam into your knackers as you go down. I made sure I had that down pat. One by one we dropped into the water, and drifted down to the next set of rapids. Ahead of me I saw the procession of people dropping over the edge, and then it was my turn.

A few seconds of swirling, roaring disorientation, a few minor bumps, and I was apparently over the rocks. But... something's wrong. I'm not coming up. Arse. I seem to be caught in a vortex, going round and round but staying under the surface. I remember two things very clearly: first, despite always having a mortal fear of drowning or suffocating, I am remarkably calm, simply hoping that I pop up before oxygen becomes too distant a memory. And secondly, that it was at precisely that moment that I finally remembered what "Rio Jacare" translates as: Crocodile River.

Then I was hauled out by one of the guides, who looked rather relieved that I was still breathing.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 2 Nov 2012, 11:42, Reply)