One more trip, Easton’s rafting trip, and then I’m done. My flight back to New York is three days from now. I know Gabe and I need to have a conversation, but I’m not sure how to start it, or what I would say.
So instead I put on my bathing suit and my base layer, because according to Gabe, we’re in the in-between seasonal zone between bathing suits and wet suits, and I get in the Jeep with Gabe to head to a whitewater location that’s good for beginners, on the Mionet River.
These words make no sense to me, “whitewater that’s good for beginners,” but then no words involving the term “whitewater” would really make sense to me.
When we reach the river, I’m relieved to see that it’s a wide, lazy-looking river—with lush green vegetation rising to tall evergreen forest on either side. And the rafts are less intimidating than I feared, too. I know this makes me a dope, but I was totally picturing a big flat wooden raft with a pole. So when I see that “rafts” are actually inflatable yellow boats, I’m relieved. Surely nothing bad can happen to you when you’re in a big puffy yellow boat.
I mean, other than violent seasickness, which is pretty much a given.
Then Easton starts going over self-rescue techniques with us, and my heart is pounding so hard I have troubling listening to what he’s saying.
“You okay?” Gabe asks me.
I don’t want to tell him how much this trip freaks me out, so I nod and do my best to concentrate.
“…toes pointing up. Face out of the water, toes out of the water, if you can. The float position will reduce the risk of entanglement with rocks or other obstacles.”
Rocks.
Obstacles.
Entanglement.
“Lucy?” Gabe’s voice is soft and concerned at my ear.
“Promise you’ll rescue me if we capsize,” I instruct him.
He grins. “I promise.”
My heart slows down. Because no one could look at Gabe freaking Wilder, six foot-plus and totally in control of the whole world, and still be scared.
“What did he say about float position?” I demand of Gabe, as we follow Easton’s instructions for getting in the raft.
“Face up, arms outstretched, feet first, legs bent to absorb impact. Toes and face above water.” He repeats Easton’s life-saving guidance. “Then once you orient yourself, roll and swim aggressively to wherever Easton and I tell you.”
“I’m not the most aggressive swimmer.”
“You’ll be okay,” Gabe says. “I gotcha.”
In the raft, Gabe is indeed right behind me, giving me instructions as we go. And I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that in the cool breeze, without the gas-and-oil smells of an engine, I feel only slightly queasy. After a while, I start to relax and actually enjoy myself. The water is damn cold, but aside from the occasional spray in my face, I’m mostly pretty happy. The river is beautiful, the forest on either side rugged and green, mountains visible and snow capped in the dips between the trees, and everyone in the boat is in a great mood.
So far, we’ve only done Class I and Class II rapids, and mostly it’s a rush. Like we’re flying downstream, skimming over the surface of the world. I’m starting to think I freaked out for no reason when Easton eases us over to the bank and warns us that we have Class III rapids coming up. “The river’s high today,” he says. “There’s more runoff than I was counting on, so these are probably closer to III-plus. But if you listen to what I say and do exactly what I tell you, we’ll be fine.”
“And if we don’t?” one of the women on the trip asks.
“You’ll still be okay, but you might be a helluva lot wetter,” Easton says, managing to make it sound like sex. Do all Wilders have the ability to make effortless innuendo?
Her eyes track down the length of his body.
“He’s going to do fine with the New Rush Creek,” I tell Gabe.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gabe says.
Easton finishes his instructions and lets us loose on the water again, and for a moment, I think he must have exaggerated the difference between Class II and Class III. But then it’s like someone’s turned the volume up on the lovely gentle shush of the river, and I stiffen.
The roar gets louder, like an animal coming for us.
“Well, shit,” Gabe says quietly. “Easton wasn’t kidding about the runoff.”
The water ahead of us is a rough rush of brown and white, and looks nothing like the rapids we’ve seen so far. My heart’s pounding again, and it feels like I can barely draw a breath. Nausea rises, hard and thick, and instinctively, I lean over the side. I’m going to throw up, and no way I’m going to do it all over my boatmates…
Easton’s shouting instructions to us, telling us how to lean and shift, who should have a paddle in and who shouldn’t. We’re careening through the rapids and I can’t do anything except hold on for dear life and scream.
“Lucy!” Easton is yelling. “Lean right. Right! Fucking right!” which I would if I could but gravity is doing something all wrong, and everything tilts off its axis and I know—we’re flipping. I grab and grab, but I’m sliding and screaming, and then I’m tumbling under the icy surface, tossed and held. The cold knocks all the air out of my lungs; my head smacks against something, hard; my mouth flies open; and water rushes in.
Everything goes dark.