Reading this issue's cover story about how short-term stress can be beneficial took me to a place I haven't been in a long time—a river in the U.K. where I went for a memorable swim.
I was 20 years old, partway through a semester of study in Carmarthen, Wales. One of the highlights was a rigorous course called Outdoor Pursuits taught by a former officer in British Special Forces. For weeks we had been honing our kayaking skills on Wales's tamer whitewater rivers, so on a Saturday in November we headed to a rugged, remote area for our "final exam." The river, pretty but perilous, cascaded down a gorge, punctuated by several small falls and one gnarly section our instructor described as a "funnel"—a fast-moving flume bordered by high stacks of boulders, below which tumbled a series of thunderous rapids.
When we reached the funnel, our instructor went first, knifing through the water unperturbed. Then it was my turn.
I got through the main channel but was pushed sideways by the heavy waves. My kayak hung up on a rock, leaving me half in and half out of the water, perpendicular to the river, buffeted by a churning, frothy whirlpool. I threw my weight backward to dislodge the kayak and in so doing exposed the underside of the boat to the powerful current. In a split second, I was upside down, pointed backwards, rushing down the river underwater.
This would've been well short of a predicament for an experienced whitewater kayaker. He or she would have performed a flawless Eskimo roll—named after the Inuit hunters who invented the technique—to correct their capsized kayak. Then such a person would have executed a nifty maneuver to reposition the kayak downstream and frolic on down the river. But I was not such a person. I was a terrified novice from a flat farm state where the only "white" water was an occasional chalky stream.
Nevertheless, my roll was half decent—I was almost upright when I got hammered again and disappeared beneath the waves, this time with a mouthful of water.
I tried a second roll, popped up briefly, and heard my instructor, some distance away, shout—"Get out of the boat!" And down I went a third time.
I yanked the spray deck off the oval opening in the kayak and pushed myself out. Now the party was really underway.
As far as the river was concerned, I was no different than any random piece of debris. I tried, futilely, to swim. I bounced off a rock, opening a gash in my shoulder, and pinwheeled back into the surf.
Desperate now, injured and running out of air, I resurfaced for a moment and saw a second instructor's kayak a few feet away. I reached half blindly, found his towrope, and held on. I was still gasping for breath as we rode through a few more rapids, but we finally reached quieter water. I dragged myself to the shore and sprawled on a wet slab, chest heaving. Whew.
As you can read beginning on page 48, our bodies react to acute stress by rallying immune cells to strategic locations, an evolutionary response aimed at strengthening our ability to deal with short-term trauma. According to our story, such moments of episodic duress—speaking before a big crowd, watching your kid pitch in the championship game, careening down a turbulent river upside down—"can speed wound healing, enhance vaccine effectiveness and potentially fight cancer." It's good for you!
So, next time you're in a stressful moment that leaves you twitchy and dry-mouthed, wishing time would speed up so it would all be over, embrace it. Who knows, you may be adding years to your life. Provided you don't drown in the process.
Kevin Cool is the executive editor of Stanford.
