Chapter Twelve #2
“I’ll always back you up, Stellar J. If you’ve got an idea of what you want the clients to learn from this, in the water and out of it, then we’re on.”
I tip my head at Brent and Willow, still on the riverbank. Brent makes impatient gestures, deliberately rocking the boat as he climbs into the bow, making it hard for Willow to hold the canoe steady from shore. Establishing a precedent, no doubt.
“People get used to seeing things from their own perspective. They wouldn’t be half so likely to want their partner to ‘Get Out of Here’ if they had any idea of the work they were doing. We need some of the dynamics around here to switch up.”
He nods slowly. “So, they need the dynamics to switch up—or you need that?”
“Everybody needs that.” It’s true, but there’s a guilty little itch behind my breastbone saying I’m doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.
“Okay. I believe in you. You know what you’re doing.”
On the short paddle to the rapids, Lori and Mitch switch it up like pros, pulling ahead with a smoothness that makes the others hustle to prove themselves.
Brent’s getting a big dose of what it’s like to be the bow paddler, namely that Willow can critique his every move from the stern while he can’t even see her.
“I’m doing my best! I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.” Willow greets this protestation with the disbelieving silence it deserves, given how he’s expected her to have eyes in the back of her head for the last three days.
It’s delicious.
We come ashore above the rapids to scout the hazards. After we reconvene in a big friendly eddy that exits directly into whitewater, all eyes turn expectantly to me.
Lyle always says something inspiring at this point.
“Um… we’ll go ducky style, one after the other. Leave two boat lengths between each canoe. Everybody, uh, listen to your partner and take their perspective. Have some fun, and when you get to the outwash, thank your partner for all the work you didn’t even realize they were doing. Let’s go!”
I meant to lead everyone down the rapids single file, but before I’ve even turned around, Brent barks, “We’re first.” He switches sides and digs in, turning his canoe toward the eddy line where calm water meets current.
“I’m not ready,” Willow yelps, nailing Brent with a stream of water from the tip of her paddle as she scrambles to switch to the left.
“Brent, wait,” I say, swiping for their gunwale, but they’re out of reach.
“This is why I take the stern, so someone’s in control,” he snaps, turning to face her. The nose of their canoe swings hard to the right as Willow’s steering stroke goes unmatched by Brent in the bow.
“Control yourself ,” Willow bites back.
“Watch your line, watch your line!” I yell, paddling after them.
The accelerating current whips the nose of their boat into the rough, splashy flow at the edge of the tongue. Water sluices over the sides of their canoe. The lower they ride with the additional weight, the faster their boat fills.
I put my hands out to the side to signal stop , but Sloane and Dereck have already followed me like the next ducklings in line.
“No! Wait. Everybody wait,” I shout, but Dereck and Sloane leap forward as Brent and Willow’s canoe sinks out from underneath them.
I can’t hear what Dereck exclaims, but he’s pointing his paddle at Willow’s helmeted head bobbing toward shore.
Sloane interprets this in the paddling tradition: Dereck’s pointing where he wants the boat to go.
She’s incredibly strong, her hard dig easily overpowering Dereck’s.
He shrieks in dismay as they enter the tongue broadside to the waves.
“Fuck!” Sloane sounds like it physically hurts her to switch to the left.
Suddenly, her big strong pull is gone, replaced by a cramped half stroke that does nothing to get them out of doom’s path.
They disappear over the crest of a standing wave, reappearing on top of the next one as an upside-down boat and two more bright helmets floating in the current.
Source control , I think, an emergency checklist flickering to life from behind a long-closed door in my brain. A surge of anxiety accompanies the list, like when anything about my medical career occurs to me. But I have no choice.
Get help. That comes first. Then source control to stop the hemorrhaging.
I turn to hail Lyle, but he’s already signaling for the remaining clients to stay where they are.
Lori and Mitch are heading back to the put-in spot, presumably to portage past the rapids on the pathway next to the river.
Trevor and Petra seem distracted by something upstream.
They’re out of the way for now—or are they?
Inexplicably, they look at each other, then start paddling.
They tip almost as if they’re trying to, Petra’s paddle flashing as they tumble into the churning water.
Everyone’s lost their minds but me, but at least Lyle’s coming down to help me with the murder scene at the outwash.
Sloane shoots me a pissed-off look from beside her boat. She’s functionally been my family for a little over twenty-four hours, but I can read I told you so on my sister’s face. Dereck has managed to climb back in the boat, shivering as he bails with a plastic measuring cup tied to a rope.
Willow might be in control of her waterlogged canoe if Brent were helping her, but he’s whirling around in the water shouting “My shoe! I lost my shoe,” while Willow screams back, “Don’t put your feet down!
Float on your back!” Some distance downstream, Trevor and Petra are swimming for shore, their abandoned boat bumping gently in an eddy near the outwash.
Mitch and Lori tromp out of the foliage carrying their canoe. Lori can’t see much with the hull over her head, but Mitch surveys the carnage with a dispassionate look, the canoe braced on one strong shoulder. “That went poorly.”
I bristle, very much aware that I liked Mitch’s blunt, critical style before she directed it at me. “Everything’s okay! Stay cool while we sort ourselves out!”
Sloane glares at me, shivering. “Easy for you to say from up there,” she gripes, just as Dereck accidentally nails her right in the helmet with a cupful of water.
Sloane floats for a second, eyes closed, then ever so slowly reaches up and pushes her sodden bangs out of her face, coming away with a gritty handful of sand from the bottom of the canoe.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, Sloane.” Dereck leans way over to see whether she’s okay. The canoe ejects him, soaking Sloane again. Dereck comes up spluttering, then draws a mighty breath to scream, “ Why is this country so fucking freezing ?”
A look comes over my sister’s face. I’ve seen that look in the trailer for Nighthawke . I’ve seen it on myself, and it’s never not meant trouble.
She kicks herself onto her stomach and heads for my canoe.