I have trouble with flashbacks.
It has nothing to do with Vietnam. Actually, in Vietnam I had flashforwards about being married and mowing lawns, but that's another column. I was watching TV last night when a special came on about white water rafting. Yep. Flashbacks.

In the summer of 1982 my buddy Charlie and I were among eight friends who were contacted by an adventurous gal in our circle named Helen. She suggested that we all coordinate the same weekend off and go rafting.

The trip was planned for six weeks hence and we began making preparations. Charlie and I worked together so while it took some fast talking, we convinced our boss to close the office for the weekend.

A week later, an engaged couple who were coming with us decided to move their marriage plans forward and weasled out of the trip. Two weeks after that we lost some more and on Monday of the week of our trip we counted noses and it was down to Charlie and I and...yes... the organizer of our ill-fated trip, Helen.

We were determined to press on, but the final blow came on Thursday when Helen, who started the whole thing, had to withdraw. Charlie hung up the phone and I could tell what the news was. Determination washed over us as we high fived each other with the battle cry "WHITE WATER!" on our lips. It was one of those male bonding things. I hate those.

So it was that Charlie and I found ourselves at the Happy Time Raft and Canoe Rental at dawn on a Saturday morning in August inquiring as to the availability of a suitable raft. Now here's where the flashback takes on B movie overtones. When I hear the raft guy's answer echo today in the canyons of my mind it is in exaggerated slow motion and sounds like a dischordant caliope as he says "WE-HAVE-NO-RAFTS-LEFT...HOW-ABOUT-A-CANOE?"

Now Charlie had been white water canoing before. I hadn't. Charlie explained that the steering went on in the aft quarter which we agreed he was more qualified to do. Of course, that qualified me, by default, to sit up front and try to ward off the disasters that rushed at us by screaming at them from the top of my lungs. When that failed I turned to beckoning mother but she never showed.

The first quarter-mile or so was quiet and pastoral as we drifted lazily with the current. We settled back and glanced dispassionately at the map provided and laughed at the funny, squiggly lines that intersected the river every few hundred yards. We found out what they were in spades. They were "dams". In this case "dams" were like stairsteps that provided a 90 degree sudden drop in the river's level of anywhere from 3 to 8 feet. There must have been two dozen of them.

Lacking any options whatever, we shot over every one. None successfully. Not one. We did not squander a single opportunity to swamp the canoe. Not to suggest that we actually waited for a dam to swamp ourselves. Sometimes we did that just to entertain the Gods of Whimsey who laughed from the bank.

Unfortunately the combination of very cold water and razor sharp rocks beneath meant that swamping not only brought gulps of water and an icy bath, but hundreds of little "paper cuts" on our arms, backs and legs.

When we weren't preparing to capsize, capsizing, or just recovering from having capsized, Charlie and I would paddle to shore to climb the craggy rocks and look down on the next treacherous stretch. From this vantage point we were poised to speculate upon the nature, method and untimeliness of our soggy and imminent deaths.

The discussion did become heated at one point when Charlie insisted we would be dashed to smithereens against a gauntlet of rock outcroppings while I opined that the whirlpool we would have to traverse to get there would suck us into a watery grave long before the rocks even came into play. It was my contention that our bodies might well be recovered with long poles from those rocks, but that they would not impede our navigation while we still drew breath.

From time to time, like a portable "Where's Waldo?" we saw a young man in a red striped polo shirt bobbing along on his own raft near us. We passed each other several times and waved when we did. About halfway down the 8 hour run, we saw a blessed landing with a snack bar that promised cold beer. Ours had long since taken leave of us and is no doubt at the bottom of the river even today.

The young man from the raft had already arrived when we hauled our sunburned, bruised and bloodied carcasses up the gangway. He offered to buy us a beer right after he led other onlookers in a mock round of applause in appreciation for our intrepid voyage. I will point out at this juncture that most of them, including the smart aleck boy, were going down the rapids in rafts...a much simpler proposition. A raft is much more likely to slither over dams and rocks than is a two man canoe.

As soon as we sat we were mildly surprised when he said "Tell me; who is Helen Hewbish?"

Charlie and I looked at each other to inquire whether either of us knew this kid.

"Why do you ask?" Charlie said.

"Because you kept calling for her. Is she on another canoe upstream? Is she lost?" He wanted to know.

"Calling for her?" I said.

"Yes" the boy answered. "Each time, just before you capsized, one or both of you would yell 'HELEN HEW-BISH!' at the top of your lungs.

Charlie and I grinned, took a long pull on our beers and understood simultaneously.

Helen's last name was Brown.