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pull up and lean back hard!” he commanded. We obeyed, and by the time I realized what was going on, it was too late. We catapulted back into the river. I squeezed my paddle and lunged for the side of the raft again. The guide was already inside and hauled me up by the life jacket. Instinctively, I scanned the waves for others who needed rescue. Within five minutes we had the whole team aboard and were plunging our paddles into the water.
    A dozen strokes later our guide pushed his whole weight into the rudder and shouted for the people on the left to paddle hard. The raft was too heavy for a last-minute change in direction. The river swept us toward a “hole,” a “keeper,” a whirlpool that sucks things in and swirls them around underwater like a washing machine and spits them out or, sometimes, keeps circulating them.
    The hole vacuumed the left side of our raft and dragged me underwater. Kicking with my legs and beating my arms, I surfaced underneath the raft. I gulped some air and forced myself underwater again and groped my way out. I hung on to the cord on the side of the raft and tried to catch my breath as water crashed against my face. There were two people beside me and three across from me. One woman’s face was ashen. “It’s going to be okay!” I yelled at her but she barely nodded.
    A wave tore at our cold, tightly curled fingers. I clung to the stretched cord as the water bent me backward, gushed over my closed mouth and eyes and pulled at my hair before releasing me back to the side of the boat. When I opened my eyes, I was the only one left clinging to the raft. I gasped for air through chattering teeth as water bottles, Teva sandals and paddles cruised by. Two rafters marooned on a log mid-river called for help. I surveyed the angry water. One, two, three, four, five overturned rafts. Even the gear boat was stuck on the rocks.
    Our guide’s arms cut through the frothy water. He manteled himself onto the raft in one swift motion, told me to look out, righted the raft by himself and climbed back in within seconds. He hauled me in along with four others. We had three paddles for six people. I paddled as hard as I could to shore. Just before we landed, I peppered the guide, “Did you see Jim?”
    He looked everywhere but at me and mumbled, “He went in the hole.” My mouth went dry.
    As the rest of the boats limped in one by one, I asked if anyone had seen Jim. I craned my neck and saw him slumped in the last raft. Jim’s features were blank, as if he had seen a ghost. I hugged him but his body moved away restlessly, and he muttered something about a warm jacket. I draped my fleece over his shoulders as he sat down and started to whittle a piece of driftwood. I sat beside him.
    â€œAre you okay?” I whispered.
    He focused on the piece of wood as he spoke in almost a childlike voice, “Yeah, yeah, um, I went into the hole.”
    I leaned closer so that we were touching and asked, “What happened?”
    He pushed the knife rhythmically down the driftwood and explained, “At first I tried to fight to the surface but that seemed to plunge me deeper, so I made myself go limp. The river played with me, swirled me around and around for what seemed like at least five minutes. Just when I felt my lungs would burst, that I couldn’t hold on any longer, the river let me go and I floated to the surface.”
    Jim turned his head slowly to look into my eyes and shuddered. “It’s the closest I’ve ever felt to dying.” I bit my lip and squeezed him closer to me. My body sagged. We were not safe. I had almost lost him.
    Over the next five days we flipped five more times. On the final day, as the river widened into a lazy flow with not a ripple in sight, we splashed each other to ease the intense heat and the tension of the trip. Several people dove in and when one woman was inadvertently jostled overboard, she began to shake