Hell in Georgia Bad Breaks: The Sky Was Crying, and So Was I By Brian Boardman

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It all began with the cab ride to the airport. I was on my way to Augusta, Ga., from Northwestern University in Evanston, Ill., to catch up with the rest of my crew teammates who had left by way of bus the night before. I was looking forward to a good Spring Break of warm Georgia weather and hard workouts. My bags were packed, and I was ready for the vacation of my life.

Once on the plane, I was sitting with a group of cowboys, whose hats and thick southern accents filled the plane. Apparently they we beginning a hunting trip. They had a penchant for making jokes about the pitiful piece of foil we were about to fly in. Given the end-of-the-world type weather, I was in no mood for such musings. One of the "good old boys" closed his window, and a chunk of the plane fell off.

"Damn, we're going to fly in this thing?" he asked. "Well, I better get myself a few drinks so I can make it."

Sure enough we took off through a downpour of biblical proportions and bounced between lightning bolts. I arrived in Augusta exhausted, both mentally and physically from my journey. I went to get my bags; Nowhere to be found.

So there I was with my team, wearing my only clothes and needing to practice the next morning. Of course torrential rain drenched us during our first practice, leaving my clothes and I soaked to the bone.

When my bags finally arrived, I was the happiest man alive; I truly believed things would finally turn around.

Then came Tuesday; The fateful day. A day I will never forget -- a day of infamy.

The "warm" Augusta weather had reached a high of about 50. It was windy, overcast and cool. We prepared to go for our morning row.

Everything was fine until we reached a bend in the mighty Savannah River. The water looked rough ahead, but our coach told us to continue forward under a couple of bridges.

On the other side of those bridges, hell in the form of an angry river awaited. The wind was whipping up enormous waves, and our tiny boats could barely cut through them. We made the risky maneuver of turning around and heading back upriver. As I pulled my oar through the gigantic waves, a sudden sense of fear gripped me. Water crashed over the boat's gunnels with each stroke. I pulled harder... but to no avail. The water just kept pouring in.

I glanced to my right to see our team's other boat floundering in the same water. As I saw my running shoes floating inside the boat, it occurred to me that there was no way to avoid going down.

"Stop rowing, start bailing!" commanded our coxswain.

I grabbed my shoes and started bailing. I bailed like I've never bailed before. Before I knew it, we were swamped. The frantic thoughts that flashed through my head can never be recaptured.

I gasped when I entered the water. It felt as though a boa constrictor had wrapped around my body and was squeezing the air out. At this moment I realized just how dangerous the situation was.

As I floated with my arms over the underside of the capsized boat, I watched my shoes float down-river. I slid my body down the boat, grabbed an oar and started my way through the rushing current toward shore. I am not a good swimmer, but in dangerously cold water, with adrenaline pumping, I resembled Olympic great Matt Biondi. Actually, make that Matt Biondi wearing a Gore-Tex jacket.

Our coach came to shore with his motorboat to start taking us back to dock. We could only fit three in the boat, so we chose those of us in the worst condition from the cold -- myself and two others.

As we cruised back to safety, I noticed the ghostly expressions on the other two guys' faces, who were looking at the river behind me.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I'm scared," one said.

"Me too," added the other.

"Why ever could they be scared?" I wondered silently.

Just then, a giant wave crashed into the boat, and I now found myself submerged in the Savannah for the second time.

So here we were, arms draped over the underside of the motorboat, floating in the middle of this river. We were too far from shore to swim. There was no help in sight. All we could do was float and freeze.

What kind of conversation does one make in this scenario? I repeatedly tried: "Oh geeze, the boat's going to flip! The launch is going to sink because of the weight of the motor!" That didn't seem to liven things up.

One of my teammates floated with a drawn, hopeless look on his face. It was the first time in my life I actually thought I might die.

After roughly 20 minutes, we made our way to shore, where I stood again in a shivering daze desperately trying not to pass out. I huddled together with the other guys for warmth, and we waited for help... and we waited for help... and we waited.

While we were covered under a fleece, our coach was busy chopping down trees to build a canoe to float us to safety.

An eternity passed before the maverick coach came barreling through the waves to save us. The ride back was long, frightening and cold, but we made it safely.

The rescue teams were waiting for us at the docks, but we simply went back to our hotel. After about an hour in a scalding hot shower, I regained feeling in my legs.

Needless to say, this trip was ruined. We spent the next few days mentally recuperating from the traumatic experience. Quite naturally, my flight back was delayed and for the second time I could be seen sprinting through the airport in Atlanta. I finally made it home. I had survived hell in Georgia.