Plenty of time to get out. I look ahead to make sure there aren’t any other sweepers waiting to grab me in their woody embrace. Nope, the water ahead is clear. I angle toward the near shore, toward the reserve, kicking my freezing legs. I paddle with arms that feel like they’re made of lead. I’m pretty close to the edge now. Suddenly I spot the hole in my plan. The bank isn’t grassy or sandy. It’s not even gravelly. It’s just a wall of rock. And it’s, like, twenty-five feet high. Being the start of a gorge and all. I don’t even allow myself a second of whining at this newest awful development in my day. I’m cold, and I’m growing stupid as my awareness slowly dwindles to a pinprick centered on surviving this crappy mess. I’ve got to save my mental energy for getting me through the rapids. I can’t climb out on this side. And that stupid freak stabber guy is somewhere on the other side. I have no choice. I have to swim them. I flip onto my stomach and point my head downstream.
