Thumbing through the brochures in the hotel after arriving in Cairns this morning, I decided against all the laws of probability that a fantastic way to end the year (and possibly my life) would be to go White Water Rafting. I'm slightly impetuous like this - Show me a brochure or guide book full of things to do next week and my brain has time to reel in horror and say "Are you Mad?", but present me with the same crazy opportunity and explain that it absolutely must be done right now and sometimes I just can't help myself. I'm absolutely convinced I'm not the only one who recognises this phenomenon in myself, either, as, when I was younger, some of my friend's did seem to have the uncanny ability to come across a lot of things that weren't going to be around the next day.

And so it was that I came to be sitting in the reception of the hotel at eleven o'clock this morning, shortly after arriving, waiting for a five hour nail-biting ride along the Tully River with 5 other nuts in a small piece of orange rubber that I wouldn't trust to use as a backpack.

These were going to be grade four rapids, I should add for those who know what I'm talking about - none of those grade three woosey rapids for grannies and small children! There was a page in the brochure which explained the different grades on offer - Grade three, it said, was ideal for beginners and grade four was only for those who seriously wanted to get wet. If I had to think about this for a moment, the offer of a video as a keepsake for those brave enough to try the fourth grade made my mind up for me. If I was going to end my life being tossed to pieces on some craggy rocks, at least my friends would be able to watch my demise later.

Actually, the whole experience was incredibly good fun and nowhere near as bad as a lot of us had obviously been expecting. The guides helped to give it all a bit of extra excitement by constantly saying things like "This next rapid is called Instant Death in a Pool of Blood" - but of course, the next rapid wouldn't be anywhere near as bad as it had been built up to be so there were a lot of moments of suspense followed by a sort of "oh, right" moment before the next rapid loomed up in front and we were back to the suspense again. Having said that, don't think for one moment that riding Tully River isn't exciting, frightening, and at times life-threatening. A waiver of liability had to be signed before we set off, and there is always a very good chance of getting hurt on the jagged rocks or drowned in a whirlpool going down some of the nastier rapids. Tully river is about one and a half hours drive south of Cairns, and it's rapids are graded at four on a scale of one to six - one being compared to a little ducky in the bath and six being something akin to Niagara falls. Level four is reasonably fast, strong and capable of capsizing a raft easily if instructions aren't followed to the letter. Often, the raft will get bored and decide to flip anyway and there is nothing that can be done to stop it - the occupants just get very wet and have to climb back in again as quickly as possible as there is no controlling the tide and any messing about is likely to result in the raft vanishing over the horizon without you.

On the way to the Tully, our coach stopped for morning tea and we had to change into swimming costumes. At the river itself we were then supplied with helmets, lifejackets and oars, and split into eight groups of seven before being led down a narrow path through the rainforest to where our rafts were waiting. We were shown how to paddle, how to manoeuvre the raft by suddenly shifting to the left or right, and how in the direst of consequences we could all squat down in the bottom between the seats to stabilise the center of gravity and prevent us from capsizing. This, I will say now, doesn't work.

We were taken through drills concerning how to rescue someone from the water, what to do if they were swept off down the rapids, how to use all sorts of safety ropes, and how to swim in order to avoid being cut to shreds by underwater rocks which we wouldn't actually be able to see coming!

"So," Phil the instructor asked, "Does anyone want to back out?"

This would have been a nice thought, if it weren't for the fact that we were already moored in the middle of the Tully at this point, seven ashen faced people wondering what we had let themselves in for but not wanting to make ourselves look foolish by asking to be taken back to the bank. We were well and truly committed. As, indeed, we should've been

We swept off down the river more or less under the hand of God, frantically paddling in and out of the rocks littering the course. After a few hundred yards we hit the first rapid, and hung on for dear life as we were propelled over the edge and through the cascading white-water to the bottom, desperately trying to keep the raft afloat. The trouble is that both steering and holding on are crucial at exactly the right moment and that the time available to get from one to the other is about a millionth of a nanosecond. This means that we had to paddle like a mad thing right up until the point when we slipped over the edge of the rapids, at which point our instructor Phil would suddenly scream "Hold On" and if everyone didn't pull the oars out of the water, point them skyward, grab the safety rope and wrap it around their hands before these words were actually out of Phil's mouth, we'd all be in the water.

"That was a little one to start with" said Phil when we had spluttered and choked our way through the first rapid, "That was a level three, this next one is a level four - It's called Tourist's entrails. He said something like that, anyway.

And so it went on, rapid after rapid, until lunch.

The whole day consists of a total of forty-seven rapids over a fourteen kilometre stretch of the Tully. Before lunch, we only actually covered a couple of kimometres and were promised faithfully - and quite wrongly, I can assure you - that the afternoon section was a stroll in the park. We moored the rafts on the bank and found a quiet little clearing for lunch where we were supplied with sandwiches and drinks and the cameraman went around asking people what they thought of it so far and pointing the camera right up their noses as they answered. At least we had half an hour to relax, although by the end of the day, every bone in my body was still aching.

After lunch, things didn't get off to a good start. After somehow managing to stay in the raft all morning, we flipped the raft on the very first rapid and I got stuck underneath with a girl called Sophie from Perth. The being stuck in an air bubble with a pretty girl wasn't actually the problem - far from it, I could've stayed there all day - the scary thing was that at some point we both needed to actually get out and we were surrounded by a fast moving current which wanted to pull us apart and jagged rocks which wanted to rip us apart. Also, the raft was jammed under an overhang so we couldn't lift it off and were forced to swim underneath to get out. The trouble was that our lifejackets wanted to pull us upwards and we needed to swim downwards, so we were pretty much stuck there until rescued. And when I tell this story of being stuck under a raft with an Aussie Sheila, surrounded by certain death in every direction and hoping that somebody will miss us, do you know what the average Australian bloke wants to know? "Did you kiss her?" Apparently, to an Aussie, it doesn't matter if you die in these situations, as long as you score with the fit bird.

The cameraman followed us along the riverbank for most of the journey, and at the end of the day we were able to purchase a copy of our exploits and also a set of colour photos. I was just glad to be able to get my aching bones back to the hotel and lay down for a few hours before going out at Midnight to see the New Year in at a fireworks display in the middle of town. There was a band, and people sitting around on chairs or dancing in the town square - but to be honest, it wasn't the most exciting New Year I've ever been to and I really just wanted to fall into bed and sleep for a fortnight.

About Simon and Burfords Travels:

Simon Burford is a UK based travel writer. He will be re-publishing his travel blogs, chapters from his books and other miscellaneous rantings on these pages over the coming weeks and months, and the entry on this page may not necessarily reflect todays date.