I’m not the kind of person who enjoys getting thrown into water. I like knowing where my feet are, thank you very much. I don’t mind the outdoors, but thrill? Not really my thing.

My partner, on the other hand, lives for it. He’s always chasing the next rush—ziplining, rock climbing, long treks. So when he said, “Let’s go rafting in Coorg this monsoon,” I tried to smile. He was excited, and I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the vibe.

We booked a short trip in July. The idea was to do something together, something we’d remember. I told myself it would be nice—lush green views, cozy food, maybe a spa after the chaos of the river.

The day we arrived, the rain hadn’t stopped. It was that steady monsoon kind—soft but endless. Everything smelled like wet soil and coffee leaves. The resort was tucked into a hillside, and you could hear the river even before you saw it. That should’ve been my first warning.

Our rafting guide met us early next morning. He handed us life jackets and paddles with a big grin. “Don’t worry,” he said, “the river only looks angry.” I wasn’t convinced. My stomach was already doing backflips.

The Barapole River didn’t wait. We barely had time to push off before the first rapid came crashing toward us. Water smacked me in the face. I screamed. Then I laughed, surprised that I was still on the raft.

I looked over at my partner—his grin was even wider than the river. “We’re doing it!” he shouted. I nodded, still terrified but also kind of thrilled.

We tackled rapids with names like Ramba Samba and The Big Bang. Each one had a personality. Some playful, others sneaky, one that nearly threw me overboard. I clung to my paddle like it was the only thing I had control over—which, honestly, it was.

But something happened midway through. We started syncing up. Paddling in rhythm. Shouting out turns before the guide did. Laughing more than screaming. I stopped thinking about my fear and started enjoying the wild ride.

For the first time in a long time, we weren’t thinking about emails or errands or what show to binge next. We were just… in it. Together. Soaked, shaking, shouting, grinning.

When we finally pulled ashore, I was soaked through but buzzing with energy. We sat down on the grass near the river, steaming mugs of filter coffee in hand. My arms were sore. My heart was full. He looked at me and said, “You were amazing.” I didn’t know how badly I’d needed to hear that.

That afternoon, still high on the experience, we joined a short monsoon trek to a nearby ridge. The path was muddy, the forest alive. Leeches tried to hitch rides on our shoes, and the fog followed us like an old friend.

At the top, the view was just clouds. But we didn’t mind. We sat on a wet rock, arms wrapped around each other, quiet in a way that didn’t need filling.

Later that evening, the resort had a bonfire even in the rain, which they cleverly sheltered. A few other couples were there too, swapping stories about the day’s adventure. We shared ours and laughed about how I almost bailed before we even got into the raft.

Dinner that night was comforting and local—pandi curry, hot akki rotis, and a sweet made of jaggery and coconut. Everything felt earned. Like a warm hug after being brave.

Back in our room, I looked out the window at the dark hills. The rain had slowed, but I could still hear the river rumbling below. It felt like it was still carrying a piece of me.

What surprised me most wasn’t that I enjoyed rafting—it was that I felt proud. Not because I was fearless (I wasn’t), but because I had shown up, held on, and trusted the flow. I’d shared that with someone who matters to me, and that made it unforgettable.

We came to Coorg for adventure. We left with something deeper. A reminder that stepping into fear—especially with someone beside you—can bring you closer than comfort ever could.

Sometimes, you don’t need perfect weather or a five-star itinerary. Sometimes, you just need a river, some rain, and someone who believes in you enough to say, “Let’s paddle through this together.”