Read Online Finding Jim by Susan Oakey-Baker - Free Book Online

ride and two days of trekking later, we arrived at the put-in for the Karnali River. The lead raft guide took one look at the river level and said, “Holy shit, I’ve never seen the water so high. It’s really pushy.”
    As the guides worked to prepare the rafts, they noticed we were short one life jacket. The Nepalese fellow who would steer the gear raft drew the short straw, and the rest of the crew wrapped him in a foam sleeping pad and some duct tape, hoping that would keep him afloat if an accident occurred.
    The guides piled the gear in the middle of the rafts. Seven clients sank into the sponsons around the edge of each boat, toes hooked under a rope to keep from falling backwards. There was only room for six people, but we crammed in.
    We began the trip with three strikes against us: heavy boats, one man without a life jacket and an abnormally high, fast-flowing river. We would be on the river for 10 days and navigate 20 rapids, some as difficult as Class IV plus. The international scale of river difficulty describes Class IV using words such as “dangerous,” “boiling” and “violent.” Ignorance was bliss for me. It didn’t occur to me that an established rafting company recommended by a North American guide would put its clients at risk. At the time, I did not know that liability is less stringent in Nepal than in Canada and that companies do not rely on return clientele.
    On the first day, we stopped at the only village we would see for the next several days. The guides bought a live chicken and strapped it face down, clucking, to the front of the gear raft.
    The Karnali ripped 20 of us from our rafts that day. Some people floundered in the pumping, grey-brown river for more than three kilometres before a guide caught up to them and pulled them out. The metallic taste of the silt water lingered in my mouth until after dinner.
    On our second day on the river, the group crouched around the sandy campsite listening to the lead guide.
    â€œThe river is down 1.5 metres this morning, so it won’t be as pushy or as fast. We are going to stay closer together today and be more careful.”
    People murmured. We knew what lay ahead: a snaking canyon four kilometres long whose vertical rock walls blocked the sun and strangled the river into frothing whitewater areas called God’s House, Flip ’n’ Strip, and Juicer.
    â€œI know there is talk going around. People are scared about what happened yesterday. But we’ve got everything under control. Today will be better.”
    People spoke in hushed voices as we boarded the rafts and pushed off into the current. Downriver we heard what sounded like the roar of a waterfall. Rounding a corner, the water picked up speed. Our raft plunged first into the boiling rapids and a wave higher than the length of our five-metre boat reared up in front of us.
    â€œPaddle!” the guide yelled as we hit a wall of water. The wave pushed our raft vertical to the sky and we stalled. In that second, I saw the cavernous black hole on the backside of the wave. I groped at air with my paddle. And then I plummeted.
    Our raft went end over end. All I could see were bubbles and black. When I surfaced and opened my mouth for air, another wave slammed me back under. I thrashed. My life jacket fought against the sucking action of the river and pulled me to the surface in what seemed like slow motion. I remembered the instructions the guides gave us in case we tipped: “Hold on to your paddle. Try to grab hold of the side of the boat and then try to get on top of the boat to help the guide flip it back over.” I grabbed the side of our overturned raft and the guide pulled me on top, along with one other rafter. Water streamed from his face and hair as he shouted, “Reach down and hold onto the cord alongside the boat!” We mimicked his actions and squatted to grab the elastic cord. “Okay, now on the count of three,