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, and his own kayak was nowhere to be seen.
With a tightness in his chest, Grant realized that he could never swim against the current and reach Dasho. His arms were losing sensation, and his legs were slowing. Adrenaline would keep him going for another minute, but then hypothermia would win. Grant realized that to save himself from drowning, he had to get out of the hydraulic. He’d have to find a way to reach Dasho from the other side.
To escape the whirlpool on his own, he would have to execute a technique he’d only read about: the elevator maneuver. He recalled that the hydraulic’s current was strongest on the surface; even the best swimmer was no match for its power. Underwater, however, once the initial undertow subsided, an opportunity existed to push through the whirlpool. The key to the maneuver lay in allowing the whirlpool to suck him under, like pressing the down button on an express elevator, and then at the deepest and weakest spot, to swim out of the water column. If successful, he would pop out ten or fifteen meters downstream.
Moments later the whirlpool jerked him under again. Rather than resisting, Grant curled into a fetal position as he shot downward. This time he felt no fear, his mind strangely clear but for the immediate task before him. The moment he felt his momentum slow, Grant kicked as hard as his numb legs would allow while pulling with his arms. He made progress, but tired quickly. Then, his foot struck something solid—the underwater boulder causing the hydraulic.
A thought occurred. Why not use the rock to push myself out?
It was the wrong idea.
Planting his right foot on the rock for leverage, he pushed with the last of his energy, but instead of launching himself downriver, his foot slipped on the polished surface of the rock and wedged itself deep between the boulder and another rock beside it. Grant didn’t have time to register what he’d done. A rush of current twisted his body. He couldn’t possibly hear the cracking of his shin over the muffled roar of the water in his ears, but he experienced the splitting of his lower leg as a white light that flashed through him, as if he’d been struck by lightning.
Grant realized he was going to drown.
A cold blackness closed in around him. After the initial flash of agony, he no longer felt the pain in his leg, nor did he experience the burning in his lungs. Even the roar of the water faded into the darkness. Grant’s body went limp. Enveloped in a cool cocoon, he slipped into peaceful dream. He dreamed of flowing like the river, as if he and the water had become part of the same substance.
CHAPTER 2
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
A GUITAR RIFF RIPPED THROUGH the bank of speakers suspended over the stage. Each of the five thousand audience members stood, some on their tiptoes for a better view, most with arms in the air, and all bathed in the colorful stage lights that washed over them. Tears rolled out of the closed eyes of more than a few women in the front rows.
Brian Brady grinned at the crowd, enjoying the frenzy he’d created. Sweat ran from his silver-streaked hair down the sides of his tanned face. God, he loved this. Twenty years, and he never tired of the rush of the crowd’s adulation.
In synch with the drummer punctuating the end of the song, Brady raised both arms, embracing his people. He called out hoarsely through the wireless microphone attached behind his ear, “Let me hear you one more time!”
In unison the congregation responded, “Praise Jesus!”
“Who’s down with JC?”
“We are!” they screamed.
“If you are on the Lord’s team, what are you?”
“Saved!”
“If you are out of Christ, what are you?”
“Condemned!”
“We, the Army of the Righteous, shall bring light to the darkness,” Reverend Brady proclaimed in his smooth southern baritone, punching his fist in the air to the cheers of the congregation.
He lowered his arms palms down. Then he grinned at the crowd, showcasing his newly bleached teeth. “Can we chat?” He took a folding chair from a techie who rushed from backstage to meet him.
“You
