In Sri Lanka, beauty in surrender

In Kitulgala, nature is not a whisper. It is a roar. It demands attention. It pulls you in.

I had heard that Kitulgala was the ultimate spot for white-water rafting in Sri Lanka, what with magnificent cascades of water that plummet down hillsides with the kind of dramatic flair usually reserved for action-movie heroes, and the rivers that carve their way through the land like serpents in search of adventure.

The roar of the water gushing past us sounded like a wild beast on the hunt; I could feel the adrenaline pump through my veins as the river surged with energy, its surface a jagged array of foam and waves that danced in a wild symphony.

The guide handed me a paddle, his face serious and focused:

“Stay alert, stay low, and follow my lead!”

It wasn’t a suggestion — it was a command. The water churned, and I glanced nervously at the raft, a small inflatable vessel that would soon carry me into the wild heart of this untamed river.

The guide bellowed, “Paddle forward!” The raft surged onward into the river’s furious current. The first wave hit us like a solid wall of water, sending a shower of spray into my face.

My stomach lurched as the raft tilted dangerously to one side. I thought we might capsize. With a collective chant from the team, we dug our paddles into the water, forcing the raft back on course.

The rapids roared louder as we approached the first big set of white-water waves. I could see them ahead. Mighty. Unpredictable.

“Hold on tight!” the guide yelled, and I braced myself for impact. It felt like a blur. The raft lurched forward, the water crashing down on us with an explosive force. I was drenched in seconds. The thrill was electric.

The raft careened through the next set of rapids, twisting violently as we scrambled to maintain our balance.

The water sprayed everywhere, and I could barely hear anything over the sound of the waves pounding against the boat.

It was a full-on battle against nature itself, each stroke of the paddle an effort to fight back against the relentless current that wanted to pull us under.

Ahead of us, a massive rapid lay in wait, its waves churning and frothing like a beast ready to strike. I felt the familiar surge of fear.

“Ready yourself!” the guide bellowed. “This is it!”

The raft hurtled toward the monstrous wave. Our movements were synchronized in a frantic but controlled dance. The wave hit us with the power of a crashing tsunami, sending the raft into a wild spin.

I could barely hold on as the raft was tossed about like a leaf in the storm, but somehow, we stayed afloat.

I felt the rush of water pouring over the sides of the raft, drenching me completely, my heart pounding in my chest.

Then, just as quickly as it began, the chaos ended. We had made it. The raft floated in the calm waters of the river, the violent rapids behind us.

It was the lesson I learned from Kitulgala: The river was both a teacher and a force of nature, indifferent yet all-encompassing.

You can be shaken by the rapids, or get hold of an otherwise rare and elusive peace.

The water was violent and wild, but in that violence, there was clarity. The sheer power of the river was humbling; I realized how small I truly am in the face of nature’s grandeur.

On this river, I realized that there are forces greater than I could ever hope to command. The water will flow as it will, and I can only ride along with it, trusting the journey.

It twisted and turned, pulling me along, sometimes gentle and calm, other times fierce and chaotic.

There is beauty in surrender.