The Breath of God. Jeffrey Small
arms, and fourmeter fall beyond that is Buddha’s body.” Dasho added with a grin, “And if you hit wrong way, he will laugh as you flip.”
“Four meters?”
“Class five. Lots of water this week. Don’t take many tourists to Laughing Buddha.”
Grant felt a twinge of regret for letting his ego rather than his brain fill out the questionnaire about his kayaking experience. Most of his kayaking had actually been on Class III rapids with the occasional IV thrown in for terrifying effect. Now he faced descending the most difficult navigable rapid; the next highest classification, a VI, was considered too dangerous to run.
He examined the cliff walls at the river’s edges—too steep to pull the boats out and walk around. “How do we approach it?”
“See right fork? We take that. At top of fall, paddle hard as you can, and lean back. If you go vertical too soon, you capsize.” Dasho made a flipping gesture with his hands and winked. “No problem for you. Just follow me.”
Dasho spun his kayak, facing the rapid. He yelled over the roar of the falling water, “One more thing: careful when you land. A boulder under high water makes large hole; don’t get caught inside.”
Grant paddled two quick strokes next to his guide. For the first time, he could see over the rapid. The smooth sheets of water at the top of the fall churned into a foamy meringue as they spat over the edge of the rocks and then tumbled into a turbulent frenzy at the bottom. Grant wasn’t sure what made him more nervous: the twelve-foot fall ahead of him or the swirling whirlpool where the water pounded into the river below.
He’d seen a number of hydraulics over the years, but this one was by far the largest. When water cascaded over a large rapid, it would occasionally strike submerged rocks at the bottom that caused the current to recirculate on itself, creating a whirlpool or a hydraulic, as paddlers called them. Rafters and kayakers stuck in hydraulics often had to be pulled out. Both he and Dasho carried throw bags with thirty feet of rope each. He hoped they wouldn’t need them.
“I watch for you at bottom,” Dasho said. Taking long smooth strokes equally on both sides, he guided his kayak through the water straight for the right fork.
Grant caught his young guide’s mistake as soon as he made it. Dasho glanced over his shoulder just before reaching the top of the fall to yell his final words of encouragement, “Don’t forget to have fun!”
A slight error, really, but as Grant had learned, any misstep under dangerous conditions had a way of compounding itself, like an avalanche picking up power as it gathered snow on its slide down the mountain. The slight twist in Dasho’s body caused his kayak to drift off center, just a few inches to the left. The powerful current then exacerbated the problem, pushing him further off his line. Dasho was quick to recover, digging in on the left side of his kayak, paddling ferociously. The bow of his boat swung to the right just as he crested the fall.
He’d overcorrected and his maneuver to straighten his kayak cost him much of his forward momentum.
Grant held his breath, watching from the upper pool. Dasho hit the churning water below nose-first at a steep angle. Grant flinched as the kayak flipped. His guide’s body twisted unnaturally when it slapped the water. A queasy feeling spread through Grant’s stomach.
“Roll, Dasho. Damn it, roll!” he shouted, but he knew his voice couldn’t be heard over the thundering water.
The pale underside of the blue kayak spun in the whirlpool as water pummeled it from the fall above. Dasho should have either rolled or exited the kayak by now, but Grant saw no sign of him. His guide was either trapped or unconscious. In either case, he needed help.
Grant knew he had to descend the rapid quickly. A checklist of his options flashed through his mind. Landing on top of the other kayak would create a whole new set of problems. A glance to shore confirmed his earlier assessment—no way to go around. His only choice: time his fall just right.
With a firm, two-handed grip, Grant lifted his paddle in the air and let his boat drift forward slowly. Another few seconds, he guessed, watching the boat below. His heart pounded as if he’d been paddling hard, although he had yet to move. Just a second more. His breathing quickened.
Now.
The moment Dasho’s kayak spun to the left, Grant sank his paddle deep into the water. His arms and back burned with his effort. He hit the rapid dead-on. The roar of the water and his own pulse drummed in his ears. Pressing his feet into the kayak’s plastic footrests, he leaned his long torso into his last strokes. The drop came so quickly, he didn’t even register it until he felt the splash of his impact.
Grant squinted through the cold Himalayan spray.
There!
Dasho’s boat bobbed upside down only a few feet away. Four quick strokes and he bumped against it. The turbulent current now rocked his own kayak; he was caught in the same hydraulic that trapped his guide. Grant fought back the chill of fear that crept up his spine. If they were both to live, he had to focus on the task ahead. He formed his plan. First, he would right Dasho, and then he would worry about getting them out of the swirling hole.
Gripping his paddle in his right hand, Grant grabbed for Dasho’s kayak with his left. His fingers slipped on the wet hull. He tried a second and then a third time with the same result. He needed a new plan. Leaning as far to the side as he dared, he searched the frigid water for any hold on the boat’s underside. He took rapid, shallow breaths to avoid sucking in the water that splashed around him.
He felt the lip of the kayak’s opening. The spray skirt was attached, which meant that Dasho was still inside. He clenched his numb fingers around the narrow lip. Bracing his legs against the walls of his own kayak, Grant jerked his left arm upward while he torqued his body to the right.
Dasho’s kayak started to roll. A rush of triumph surged through Grant.
Then a gush of current from the hydraulic hit Grant’s kayak on the rear quarter, twisting him unexpectedly. He struggled to compensate for the jarring movement while maintaining his balance and his grip, but the water overpowered him. His hand was ripped from the other boat.
He flipped.
Upside-down and spinning underwater, Grant opened his eyes. He couldn’t see through the turbulent green. His lungs ached. And, he realized, he no longer held on to his paddle. The urge to panic threatened to consume him faster than the frigid water enveloping him.
His only hope was to follow his training. As he’d practiced many times, Grant tilted his ear to his right shoulder, bent his torso to the same side, and then swiveled his hips forcefully. Nothing. He attempted his roll again, but the current was too strong.
His vision darkened. Grant knew he only had seconds before he blacked out. He recalled his final option—a wet exit. Reaching both hands to the top of his kayak, he grasped the neoprene loop where his spray skirt attached to the kayak’s opening and pulled toward his chest. It released. He gripped the sides of the opening and pushed himself out of boat. The moment he was clear, his PFD, the personal flotation device, shot him to the surface.
Air.
He gasped deeply, then choked on the spray permeating the air around him. A second later, he caught a clean breath. He was going to be okay.
After a few more cautious breaths, Grant’s head cleared. Dasho. His guide’s kayak still bobbed upside down a few feet away. Grant kicked hard, swimming toward the other boat. Just as he reached his goal, the whirlpool sucked him under.
Instinctively he grabbed his knees, tucked his chin, and curled into a ball. Grant remembered that somewhere underneath the cold water, large rocks created the hydraulic, and colliding into them would worsen his situation. He had no choice but to have faith in his PFD and the circulating current to regurgitate him back up. A few seconds later, he shot to the surface again. Breathing carefully but deeply, he surveyed the standing waves around him. Dasho’s boat had spun farther away to the other side of the waterfall,