By Seth McBride: For Complete Post, Click Here…
I woke with a start. As I emerged from a blackout, details slowly filtered into my consciousness: I had a raging headache; I was lying in a bed; the room was dark. I had a vague recollection of this room. Yes, this was my room. I’d made it back to my room. That was good. But where had I been? And how did I get back? A hazy memory drifted up to the surface: me, lying in an inner tube as I floated down a jungle river in the pitch-black night.
I sat up and almost fell out of bed when I swung my legs off the side of the mattress. I laid my head back down. I gathered strength, sat back up again, transferred into my wheelchair and rolled into the bathroom of cinder block and exposed wires. I plopped down on the tile floor of the shower. I’d forgotten to turn the light on — definitely not worth getting up for. I turned on the water and sat under its tepid spatter in the moonlight.
As I washed myself, snatches of memories started coming back. I saw myself belting out “We Are the Champions” with a flotilla of Australians; sitting on the edge of a low bridge, trying to convince Bota that it would be a good idea to throw me in the water; sitting in a plastic chair, sipping whiskey from a pink bucket as Zook assured me that he could definitely, probably, piggyback me up that tree ladder to a platform where a zipline ran across the river.
Dear God, I shuddered. Later, as I talked with friends who had been there, a more complete picture began to emerge, which I’ll try to reconstruct for you now. What follows is a faithful account of the dumbest day of my life.