Cud
The year was 1987 or '88, and I was on the Ottawa River, working my second season as a white water river guide and lifeguard for Wilderness Tours. It was early in the rafting season, and I was pitching in with the new guide training—not as an instructor, but as extra muscle, the "paddle power" on rafts helmed by fresh faces and overseen by master guides.
Like many good nicknames, "Cud" came to me through an extraordinary event on the river. Specifically, it’s short for getting violently chewed up and then spit out by the Ottawa River itself. Our training boat was nearing the end of the trip, but we still had one seriously technical rapid to run. It required a swift turn in the white water, immediately followed by a drop into a massive hydraulic wave. The goal? Hit that wave dead-on, perpendicular, to avoid getting trapped and flipped by the circular current.
Our new guides missed the mark—not by a little, but by hitting the wave completely parallel to the hydraulic. Predictably, the raft was instantly caught and began to surf, spinning and floating on the circular wave. Experienced guides inside tried desperately to regain control, but as we struggled, the raft began to flood. Back then, they weren't self-draining, and as the water level rose toward our lifejackets, we started to float inside the boat, making a dangerous situation nearly impossible.
The next thing I knew, I was outside the raft. The raft then dramatically popped free of the wave, and I was left alone, trapped in the hydraulic. Unlike a raft that rides the surface, a person gets violently tumbled and spun inside that powerful current—underwater, then up for a gasping breath, then under again. The master guides on shore and in kayaks spotted me immediately and executed the rescue protocols. I spun in that hydraulic four or five times before suddenly being sucked deep down. I felt the gritty riverbed beneath me—a terrifying sign. Then, as abruptly as it began, I was ejected, popping up downstream about 20 meters away.
I looked around, swimming for shore, while the rescue team was still fixed on the churning wave, certain I was still trapped within it. The raft was already pulled onto the shore. Before I could even process the near-drowning, a Master Guide spotted me and roared, "Are you okay? Get up to the top of the rapid and guide the next boat down!" I ran. I jumped into the last raft with another guide and immediately ran the very rapid I had just been swimming.
After the trip, I don't recall anyone mentioning it. We just went through the motions—loaded the rafts, cleaned the gear, had the debrief, and headed for the bus back to camp. As we walked, the trip leader came beside me. "That was a nasty swim," he said, and we finally had a real conversation—about the danger, my actions in the wave, and what the new guides needed to learn. It was only then that the sheer danger of the event truly sank in. But I also realized I was not afraid to get back on the river.
The following weekend, while taking guests downriver, a fellow guide pulled his raft up next to mine. He turned to my guests and assured them they were in excellent hands. "John's been chewed up and spit out of the Ottawa River, which is a good omen for everyone in the raft!" As he pulled away, he yelled, "Have a good trip, Cud!"
So, what does this adventure have to do with leadership? A few things stand out far beyond the swim itself.
1. Calmness in Chaos: When I was being spun around, I was surprisingly calm. My lifeguard training kicked in: I knew I had to grab a pocket of air every time I surfaced. I lifted my arm and tucked my chin to my shoulder to create that vital space. Great leaders stay calm in a crisis because they prepare. My ability to keep calm under pressure is a direct result of preparation—both formal training and informal experience-sharing with others. Calmness, like panic, is contagious. A leader’s composed reaction signals to followers that even in chaos, some control remains.
2. The Power of Immediate Action: Running back up the rapid to take the next boat down, I was confused. All I really wanted was someone to acknowledge how bad that experience was. Instead, I got "Are you okay?" followed by "Get back to it." Many would call that unempathetic, but the master guide knew what I needed: confidence. He immediately restored it. Great leaders know that when a team member emerges from a crisis, the most difficult thing to reclaim is confidence. I’ve since tried to practice this, helping team members get back in the race quickly after a professional setback. It's guided not by coldness, but by compassion and care.
3. The Compassionate Debrief: We did eventually talk about the experience, acknowledging the danger. But that debrief happened when I had a foundation of confidence to stand on, which the master guide had helped me rebuild. Crucially, the debrief was done in a social, safe environment—part of the normal workflow, surrounded by peers who understood the river's power. Great leaders normalize the rehabbing process after failure, connecting with people through shared experiences to foster healing.
4. Reintegration and Community: My colleague who coined the nickname "Cud" understood that my reconnection to the job and the community was key. With that simple nickname, he reintegrated me. Great leaders know a team member is extremely vulnerable after a crisis. Vulnerability only becomes a development opportunity within a caring community—one where every member contributes to the well-being of others. My fellow guide was that caring member. "Cud" acknowledged the danger I survived, but more importantly, it became a symbol of the immediate healing provided by a few great leaders and a lifelong lesson in care and compassion.
It has been almost 40 years. Few people in my life know the nickname or the story, but I hope the lessons I learned have had a positive impact on those I have worked with since. This past year, Wilderness Tours celebrated 50 years of operations. I am forever grateful for the experiences I had during my time there.
