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There is a moment, in canoeing...

Must be extreme canoeing, because it's not

anything I have ever experienced or

I''d be all done canoeing...

It's called a "horizon drop"

meaning, all of a sudden, you can't--

you just cant see the river, it has

dropped away from you, and until

you get to the edge of that drop, you

don't know how far you might fall.

The dilemma is: do you get out and walk along the bank

safe and dry, and check out that drop before you get there?

Or do you trust the map, the guidebook, the guy you met

around the campfire last night, that this is just part of the fun...

you might break a bone, but you won't die,

and you will have such a story at tomorrow night's campfire.

Raising children is one long string of horizon drops, that's

what I think.  Only it's not you that might be trapped at the bottom of the falls

slowly drowning in the furious bubbles...

It's not you who might be sailing, singing, over the rapids...

It's that little beast who has made every day a day of worry

interrupted by moments of creation-worthy joy.

And who are you to say, "portage, you must porTAGE" or

hell, go for it, you only live once...either could be such bad advice.

You are no better than that drunken camper you toasted the stars with last night

Except, you are all bound up with love, and so

here you go, or don't go.

Already, you have been so brave.