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< May-June 2008
	Opus
A New Way of Life The same fundamental lack of fear that put me in a wheelchair also put me in a kayak Matt Strugar-Fritsch

It felt like a rock was embedded in my spine, piercing and throbbing at the same time. My legs were floating above me.

“I can’t get up!” I yelled to my friends. “Call an ambulance, I can’t move my legs!”

A moment earlier I had launched my mountain bike off a 10-foot drop on a trail in northern Michigan’s woods. Now, fearing the worst, I was trying to endure the excruciating pain, stay conscious, and avoid going into shock.

I awoke in ICU the next morning surrounded by family and friends, where even in my sedated state I immediately knew that something was gravely wrong. A neurosurgeon and his colleagues somberly walked in and confirmed my worst fear. I had shattered two vertebrae, “catastrophically traumatized” my spinal cord, and was permanently paralyzed from the chest down. “My life is over,” was all I could say. I couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Fast-forward three and a half years. “This rapid is called Last Chance, shouted the guide, “Because it’s your last chance to stay in the boat before Tunnel Chute! Do NOT fall out of the boat! Forward paddle!” Anticipation switched to fear, excitement, exhilaration, and ultimately relief as we paddled into the frothing chaos, through the tunnel, over the drop, and into the safety of the eddy below. It was my first whitewater experience, and I already knew that I was hooked.

Running a river from the relative safety of a raft is great fun, but I soon grew thirsty for more. I wanted to navigate through the rapids independently, in my own boat, and under my own power. But how?

“I guarantee you can paddle that boat through any rapid on this river,” Derrick Wydick told me. If anyone could make that guarantee, it was Derrick. He was a raft guide for Disabled Sports USA Far West, a river rat who works with people like me daily.

I told Derrick there was no way I could survive the South Fork of the American’s Class III+ in an inflatable kayak. Without the use of my hips, legs, or abs I’d almost certainly fall out.

Derrick explained that IKs are the perfect boat for people in my situation. They are more stable, don’t need to be rolled, and he claimed that with my level of physical fitness, I could easily self-rescue. “Trust me,” he winked.

I asked him if he’d ever taught a paraplegic to whitewater kayak and he said he’d never had the opportunity. This was all I needed to hear.

I didn’t demo an inflatable kayak to ensure that I, a paraplegic, could safely paddle. I just bought one. An Aire Strike.

The July sun was suffocating in Sacramento on that Saturday afternoon that Jim and I headed for the South Fork.

“I can’t believe the prices people pay for whitewater lessons!” I shouted to Jim as we approached our first Class II rapid. “What a waste of money. How hard can this be? Watch this.” I was sitting in an eddy at the time, but I wanted Jim to see me peel out of it. Trouble was, no one had ever taught me how to peel out, and my instincts were the only thing giving me advice. So I took the advice and leaned upstream.

As you might have guessed, the river instantly flipped me into the cold, dark underworld of the river, sending my limp body into the shallow rock garden just downstream. As I chased down my paddle and boat, I heard a female voice behind me.

“Don’t stand up!” she screamed. The irony was incredible.

I quickly pulled myself back into my IK as the woman, a local paddler named Sue Markie, paddled up and asked if I was OK. “Well,” I said, “I’m still paralyzed.”

She didn’t believe me until Jim brought me my wheelchair at the take-out. When she saw that, she declared me crazy.

I told her a fundamental lack of fear is what had put me in the wheelchair.

I paddled weekly for the next two months and befriended a group of boaters from the California Floaters Society as my skills improved.

And on Labor Day weekend of 2007, I reached the pinnacle of my post-injury life. On the fourth anniversary of my paralyzing accident—August 30, 2003—I put in on the South Fork American’s Class III+ Gorge Run, the very same class of rapids Derrick had described when he challenged me to pick up the sport.

I could never have imagined that life with a disability could be so exhilarating, rewarding, challenging and invigorating. It turns out that impossible really is nothing with a positive attitude and a little help from your friends.