Maytag'd
My life didn't flash before my eyes.
There were no thoughts of friends, family, or deeds left undone.
Only panic.
And the faint drowning voice of reason telling me what to do.
On the shore there was a 180 pound man hanging on to the end of a rope with such tenacity that he was being dragged through bushes and rocks toward the waters edge. On the other end of that rope was me getting my ass kicked by 875 cubic feet of water per second.
I had dodged several large rocks a short distance upstream navigating out of harm's way with my giant flippers and boogie board. In open water such flippers could languidly propel a diver through the water. In this river the resistance was too great to even kick them. Such maneuvering put me on the far side of the river, and the long end of the rope filled bags held by the safety guys on the far bank. But there were two men standing there, and I had river left. I tried to kick furiously to spin around and face upriver but nothing happened. My fins were immobilized by the torrid waters. Sideways, I tried to signal for the safety to throw the bag. Huge seconds ticked off the clock and he spun the bag. It left his hand and I watched it sail into the air and abruptly plunge into the river five feet from the thrower. It still had about forty feet to go.
The second safety fired his bag and it landed in the water about 2 feet in front of me and accelerated downstream ahead of me. Frantically I raced to retrieve it. I have no idea how slippery neoprene gloves could find that rope and hang on with such tenacity that I could drag a man 20 feet. The faint voice told me that if I held on that the river would bury me, that its juggernaut force would take me under. I let the rope slip and in the long interminable period that I remained with the rope the voice told me that there wasn't much rope left, that it was finite, and that there were no more throwers of ropes or even men in position to help. That voice quietly informed me that I was very quickly approaching the end of the world, the end of the world feared by ancient mariners when the world was still flat. The one that I was about to fall from and into the bellies of large scary sea monsters. I had reached the very literal end of my rope.
On the riverbank a man named Gino was performing what he later called
"High-Speed Gardening" as the river reached up and pulled him down
through that underbrush, hanging on to me. He tore the elbow of his
shirt and would later find bits of trees stuck in his pockets and
buttons. One could see the clear path that he had carved and the tilled earth that had been his wake.
In the river I was feeling the awful finality of the rope bag and the cold river flowing around me. Now over and over me. The immense gravity of it pulling me down, paralyzing me, freezing me. I lost sight of the shoreline, now only several feet in front of me and my world vanished in a flurry of white water.
And the last thing I heard over the terrible roar of the river was the faintly drowning voice telling me to let go of the rope.
And I let go.
The river spit me out and I popped back to the surface. I had lost the boogie board and willed myself the final few feet to the rocky bank. My gloved hands searched desperately for purchase and my knees bounced painfully off the now-shallow bottom. I clawed my way back onto the earth from my position dangling over the edge of the world.
I heard my own voice in my head this time.
"Close one," was all it said.
There were no thoughts of friends, family, or deeds left undone.
Only panic.
And the faint drowning voice of reason telling me what to do.
On the shore there was a 180 pound man hanging on to the end of a rope with such tenacity that he was being dragged through bushes and rocks toward the waters edge. On the other end of that rope was me getting my ass kicked by 875 cubic feet of water per second.
I had dodged several large rocks a short distance upstream navigating out of harm's way with my giant flippers and boogie board. In open water such flippers could languidly propel a diver through the water. In this river the resistance was too great to even kick them. Such maneuvering put me on the far side of the river, and the long end of the rope filled bags held by the safety guys on the far bank. But there were two men standing there, and I had river left. I tried to kick furiously to spin around and face upriver but nothing happened. My fins were immobilized by the torrid waters. Sideways, I tried to signal for the safety to throw the bag. Huge seconds ticked off the clock and he spun the bag. It left his hand and I watched it sail into the air and abruptly plunge into the river five feet from the thrower. It still had about forty feet to go.
The second safety fired his bag and it landed in the water about 2 feet in front of me and accelerated downstream ahead of me. Frantically I raced to retrieve it. I have no idea how slippery neoprene gloves could find that rope and hang on with such tenacity that I could drag a man 20 feet. The faint voice told me that if I held on that the river would bury me, that its juggernaut force would take me under. I let the rope slip and in the long interminable period that I remained with the rope the voice told me that there wasn't much rope left, that it was finite, and that there were no more throwers of ropes or even men in position to help. That voice quietly informed me that I was very quickly approaching the end of the world, the end of the world feared by ancient mariners when the world was still flat. The one that I was about to fall from and into the bellies of large scary sea monsters. I had reached the very literal end of my rope.
On the riverbank a man named Gino was performing what he later called
"High-Speed Gardening" as the river reached up and pulled him down
through that underbrush, hanging on to me. He tore the elbow of his
shirt and would later find bits of trees stuck in his pockets and
buttons. One could see the clear path that he had carved and the tilled earth that had been his wake.
In the river I was feeling the awful finality of the rope bag and the cold river flowing around me. Now over and over me. The immense gravity of it pulling me down, paralyzing me, freezing me. I lost sight of the shoreline, now only several feet in front of me and my world vanished in a flurry of white water.
And the last thing I heard over the terrible roar of the river was the faintly drowning voice telling me to let go of the rope.
And I let go.
The river spit me out and I popped back to the surface. I had lost the boogie board and willed myself the final few feet to the rocky bank. My gloved hands searched desperately for purchase and my knees bounced painfully off the now-shallow bottom. I clawed my way back onto the earth from my position dangling over the edge of the world.
I heard my own voice in my head this time.
"Close one," was all it said.
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