I had made the decision to let 44 miles of the Suwannee River use its healing powers and rescue me from the river of pain where I almost drowned during the last few years of my marriage. But this kayak trip was going to take courage and a great deal of planning. I owned nothing in the way of outdoor river gear, with the exception of two 15-year-old kayaks I had originally bought for my children.

     So I opened my laptop and began watching YouTube videos. I compiled a detailed list of what was required to kayak down a river and camp in outdoor platforms along the way. I borrowed pieces and parts from friends. I scoured local outdoor shops to touch and feel everything that was so unfamiliar. And I promised myself I was going to make it down this river.

     A friend, who had decided to make the trip with me, came over to discuss logistics before the big weekend. He took my perfectly researched list and literally tore it to pieces. He expected me to strap a heavy cooler to the top of my already bulging kayak, and he yelled at me when I expressed concern. After hours spent trying to engineer a way for two kayaks to fit on top of my small SUV, he failed miserably. In one short afternoon, he had taken all the joy out of an adventure I had been looking forward to for months.

     I decided to tell him, as diplomatically as I could, that I would be making the trip without him. I realized how quickly I was falling back into the same pattern of allowing someone else to control my life and take care of things that I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And my past experience with anger from men was enough to last a lifetime. I just wanted peace, and I wanted to do this on my own. So, for the most part, I did.

     The organizer of our group had a slight change in plans and asked if I would like to ride down with him. He would take care of travel expenses if I would rent a kayak when we arrived—he possessed a 21’ hand-carved beauty, which left no room on top of his car for my 9’ plastic stepchild. I vacillated, wanting to make sure I wasn’t redoing what I had just undone when it came to men. I finally said “yes” and began focusing on other things, like the efficiency of securing everything in dry bags in case my experience of paddling around in the neighborhood lakes didn’t live up to the standards of this renowned river.

     After a delightful conversation down I95, we arrived at Big Shoals State Park, where we hiked alongside the river for a few miles. The rapids were fascinating to watch as they feistily churned up the coffee-colored water over a 9’ drop and roared loudly to claim their territory. Thankfully, my research had shown our trip beginning well past these last rapids, as that was a feat I had no desire to accomplish.

     We met our fellow kayakers from Hilton Head at the end of the trail as the only other female and I laughed about being the sole women who had kept their commitment to this trip. We then drove around the quaint little town of White Springs, Florida, to locate the boat landing where we would all meet in the morning and stopped by American Canoe Adventures to check out a kayak. I reserved a blue one with a pink whistle that resembled mine at home, and we headed down the road to set up our tents at Steven Foster State Park for our only night of car camping.

     Out of 23 people who signed up for the trip, only nine of us (and Buddy, the dog) gathered together on Saturday morning to launch our kayaks—two of which opted for a tandem canoe. A winter storm was moving through, and the below-freezing temperatures had deterred most from embarking on a river and camping outside for three nights. One by one, we pushed off from the landing, and the current began taking us on an unforgettable adventure down a river that held something amazing, inspiring, and uniquely suited to each one of us.

     There were miles of moss-laden trees, a sandbar we selected for a quick lunch break, banks of interesting shapes formed from limestone deposits, and the pure sound of silence I hadn’t experienced in what seemed like years. My mind was so far away that I almost missed the kayaks ahead, pulling up to a wooden ramp that zigzagged up the side of the riverbank. We had reached our destination for the night, and a friendly park ranger greeted us with wagons to take our gear up to the platforms.

     Woods Ferry River Camp sat high above the river, so we pulled everything up the 550 feet of ramp and along the sidewalks to reach our reserved spots. The platforms were screened and equipped with ceiling fans and electric outlets to charge our phones. Each came with its own picnic table and fire ring, and they were clustered together at the edge of the forest so we could keep our group together. As I made my way to the bathhouse, I was happy to find the showers had ‘fresh out of the package’ curtains, and everything was super clean!

     While a few of us safely secured our kayaks along the ramp, the rest began setting up sleeping arrangements in the platforms or tents in nearby open spaces. Several of the guys opted for a trail hike, and I happily went along. We began our walk on a quiet country dirt road that eventually circled around and ended at the banks of the river, just upstream from our campsite.

     As we admired the view and then turned to head back in the direction we came, someone suggested a shortcut through the woods where you could see some semblance of an old trail. Immediately, fallen trees were straddled, and small tributaries of the river were traversed while we each enjoyed the lush, green fan palms that gave the forest its color during this bleak winter season. We stopped to photograph the swamps edged with cypress knees but kept our group tightly together since our trail had long been missing.

     As anticipated, a road soon appeared that took us directly to our platforms, and we joined the others by the campfire who were already comparing their cooking methods and chosen meals for the night. The next few hours were memories in the making. We laughed and told really funny stories. We laughed more and teased each other to test our personalities. We laughed harder and bonded. Then we laughed hysterically and lost all our inhibitions as we formed meaningful friendships. We said goodnight and figured out a way to keep ourselves warm while we drifted off to sleep in anticipation of another awe-inspiring day on the beautifully stunning Suwannee River.

     By the next morning, we all had it down…we could pack our dry bags and compression sacks in under thirty, stuff everything in our kayaks, and be on the river in less than an hour. Day two held just as much surprise around every corner as day one. We let the river carry us every now and then when we wanted to photograph the cradling arms of the majestic trees as they reached out low over the banks or the mouth-dropping tree house built high on a bluff where a rich family history made us yearn to experience the view and a moment back in time.

     I knew I was the slowest paddler in the group, but everyone took turns hanging back with me, pretending they just wanted a slower pace for a while. This was easy to figure out early on, but I enjoyed the one-on-one time I was getting with the kind of people I realized had been missing from my life for a very long time. And each person thoughtfully gave me a tip on paddling. I tried each suggestion and slowly fell into a groove where, for a few miles of the trip, I no longer lagged behind the others.

     Maybe it was the vibe I felt just being on the river with people I already liked—new friends who, if only for a few days, had helped me forget what I’d been through. Or maybe the river truly moved me, both physically and emotionally, as I realized I was allowing myself to cry for the first time in months. I rested the paddle on my lap, wiped the tears from my face, and placed my hands in the frigid water. Then I closed my eyes, letting the river absorb my tears and take me where it needed me to go.

     Just around the next bend, a large sandbar marked the entrance to the Holton Creek River Camp for our second night of camping. Very similar to the first, we hauled our gear to the platforms, heated our dinners over a roaring fire, and laughed heartily way into the night.

     Early the next morning, we pushed our kayaks away from the bank just ahead of a young Boy Scout troop to begin the final leg of our journey. The morning began lazily, but we soon began to kick into a higher gear as we realized the wind had really been the first one on the river. It had plans to go north, and we were all headed south. The river also had its own agenda as it swirled and tugged at our kayaks, almost sensing it was our last mile and attempting to keep us from leaving. We struggled to keep a straight path, but one by one, we slid our kayaks onto the paved landing at the Suwannee River State Park.

     There was a short time to unwind and regroup as we patiently waited for our shuttle to arrive and take us back to White Springs. Everyone posed for pictures and gloated about what we had all accomplished over these past few days. Stories began to unfold about the dangers of those last swirls, and we soon learned that the river landing was closing shortly due to the water rising above safe levels. All of us were so thankful for the timing of it all and held great respect for a river that had safely carried us 44.23 miles.

     It was obvious as we slowly hoisted our tired bodies into the outfitter’s van that this river had taken so much out of each of us, but it was also obvious how much more it had given back in return. As we pulled away from the landing, I peered out the window and silently thanked the Suwannee River for taking on part of the burden of my grief and being such a wonderful part of my personal journey to happiness. Then I softly blew it a kiss…for teaching me how to love myself on Valentine’s Day.