Ruby skirted the cliff to an outcrop of rocks where she could see Quinn clear the danger of the falls. Between the dome of sky and rushing flow, she waited. Above her, open and infinite. Below, unpredictable and savage.
Quinn rowed the raft from the safety of the eddy and entered the vortex of water. He looked confident and steady as he pulled. Every muscle strained against the current, pulling toward the ribbon that transected the hole and boulder. It appeared he would prevail but in an instant, the rushing water swept him to the right, sucked the raft to the edge of the hole, and flipped it. Quinn disappeared in the mouth of the rapid. The empty raft, upside down, bounced until it was lifted into the current and shot downstream.
When Quinn fell out of the raft, he knocked his head on rock. For a few seconds, he tumbled inside the whirlpool, battling the water. The harder he battled, the greater the struggle to find air. He expected to die in Salmon Falls.
As soon as Ruby saw him, she scrambled down the side of the cliff along the portage path, flung herself into the pool of flat water, and towed Quinn to the shore. He was dazed, bloody, speechless.
At the crest of the descent, four dories conducted a flawless waltz step toward the same narrow ribbon of water and passed without incident through Salmon Falls.
“Your raft gone?” an oarsman shouted, rowing over.
“Gone,” Quinn said weakly.
“What about your head?”
Ruby pressed her bandana on Quinn’s wound. “I guess it’s okay,” he said.
“Maybe the raft got hung up in an eddy,” the guide said. “Come with us. We’ll look for your stuff along the way.”