Big Water.

All was not lost, yet.

The sun was hot, not warm. Burning the skin and evaporating the sweat and occasional cool spray that rose from the river. Slick perspiring hands slipping on slick wet paddles. Fingers aching from fighting the current’s grip on the blade. Each stroke inducing popping and crackling in the left shoulder. Pain with nearly every movement of the paddle. The knees sitting comfortably atop foam one and one half inches tall by six inches square. Thighs snugly pushed forward into the bulkhead of the saddle. Pointed directly aft are the toes, the tops of them laying against the hull of the boat. The tendons and muscles connecting the tops of the feet and the shins are screaming out in agony. Pins and needles in the soles of the feet and toes, soon to move up and encompass the whole foot. There is but one relief afforded, the numbing adrenaline that comes with big water.

Don’s booming voice could barely be heard above the roar of the flooded river valley. While loading gear and preparing boats he asks a question.

Can you handle yourself?

It has become obvious now, far past that point of no return, as this question echoes off the canyon walls of the mind, perhaps oneself cannot be handled as well as previously boasted.

Can you handle yourself out here son?

All around the scenery is different. Rocks and boulders are not where they should be. Wave after wave occupies the surface where mirror flat water once was. Time is different, as bend and ledge and ledge and bend are passed long before enough time and effort has expired. This is not usual.

This is big water. Big fucking water.

The small ripples are gone, smooth fast water carries over them. The ledges are exaggerated, extremely so. What was once a simple two foot drop in elevation with a small splash and tiny wave train is now a rolling hydraulic monster. Wave train extending from the drop like the tail of an angry Japanese dragon’s tail. Flailing and waving in the air, wanting to fight. The smooth watered mouth of the drop is deceiving, it is not until the bow of the canoe starts to lean forward that the depth of the waves are revealed. The bow of the boat drops and drops and drops, sliding forward on the water and gaining speed. Will it start to rise? Will it plow into the wall of water traveling back up? A small pierce by the tip of the boat into that wall of water defying gravity, it grows, smalls white curls of water peel off to the sides of the canoes forward most point. The bow begins to lift, the stern soon to be buried in the trough. Looking forward one can only see that mystical magic water flowing towards the sky. The boats attitude changes, riding the wave skyward now. The bow crests the frothy whitecap, breaking the liquid horizon. Leveling as the canoe’s center mass reaches the crest the bow settles swiftly with a resounding smacking thud onto the next wave in line, smashing the smooth surface of the water, sending pleasing cooling spray backwards to the pilot. Thwack thud thud smack. Water is crashing into the canoe, collecting and collecting, becoming sluggish with the added weight.

Can you handle yourself…..self……self……….self………..elf…….lf…..f

The sloshing ballast is growing, each movement the river forces upon the canoe causing an echoed response by the water contained within it. Destabilized, the craft begins to roll side to side. Countering by lifting one knee and pushing with the other helps. No time to empty the sloppy stowaway. The next drop is approaching and it is approaching quickly. Time is different now.