boatman's quarterly review - Grand Canyon River Guides

keen photographer, downstream, wade across the ponded
mouth of Crystal Creek to an excellent vantage point
directly across from The Hole. Talking is useless. Standing
shoulder to shoulder, we converse by shouting. And we
wait, unable to see the boats upstream.
A lone boat appears over the horizon of the tongue,
past our crowd gathered on the viewpoint a hundred yards
upstream. The rig is just off the left wall. They will turn to
the right momentarily, use the momentum to cross the
river, towards safety on the right. They continue steadily,
still along the wall. The old boatman sits off to one side of
the motor well, his trainee at the helm. I wipe the sweat
off the back of my neck with my bandana, turn to Dick.
Too loud, even for the roar, I shout, “Do you have a
fresh roll of film”
“Yeah. Why
“See that pink dike in the wall If they don’t turn
before they pass that, it’s over.”
They pass the granite marker, Dick and I begin to
scream. Can’t help it, too much inside. My arms in the air,
palms out, like a benediction.
On the far shore, hands in the air, mouths wide.
Soundlessly they scream. The boat slides faster and faster
into the throat. Old-timer starts to wave his arms at his
pilot-trainee. Too late. The boat swerves wildly to the
right, lines up once more, to hit it straight. No-one,
neither the audience nor the actors, utters a sound. They
slam into the hole straight on, 35 horses adding its
momentum to a 25 mph current, all souls willing it over
the crest. The hole stops them dead.
Like a dinosaur on a relentless treadmill, they surf. One
full minute ticks by, still they surf. Dick hand-cranks the
camera. Click. Click. Click…hearts beat. The boat slides
off into a familiar, deadly angle. The clients begin shouting
again, willing it up and over. But we guides remain silent.
Been there.
I hadn’t expected two-inch webbing to sound like that
when it snapped. Artillery explosions. The boat disappears,
tubes flailing wildly. Entirely gone. Thousands of pounds of
buoyancy—sunk. Lifejackets appear a hundred yards
downstream, thankfully containing heads. WiWo’s rafts
careen out of their eddies in hot pursuit, in an instant are
Photos: Richard Kocim
boatman’s quarterly review page 39