Not me, but someone I coached kayaking. Running the Crake in the South Lakes, headed down the last rapid to the get-out to set up safety for our Uni club. First couple get down alright, then hear a shot of ‘swimmer!’ from upstream. Lad comes past, curled up in a ball, weeping quietly and making no attempt to get to the bank, so I wade in and haul him out, drag him onto the side and check on him. He doesn’t un-curl, just lies there, foetal, crying.
He’d swum quite early on in the rapid, and done most of the right things – on his back, feet first. Unfortunately, he’d neglected to keep his feet together, and as the water picked up speed down the slope, he’d met a rock crotch-first. By the evening the bruise had come out and spread from the back of his knees to the small of his back, via a very abused and swollen scrotum. He unhappily accepted the nickname ‘Santa’ after that one.