The other boaters, already in life jackets, stand quietly by the rafts, taking long final sips from enameled mugs. Their hands grip the cups tightly to catch the heat of the tea, and steam floats above the amber liquid, and mixes with the morning mist . . . Everyone keeps a cup. The mugs are something to do, something to hold onto as they ponder the next moments of their lives. Mentally, they are already in the boats, accelerating quickly downstream, suddenly driving head-on into mountains of foam avalanching on top of them.
Wild currents sweep into suckholes and curlbacks, and hands still grip forgotten mugs.
Ahead, rowers squint at the lashings that secure their belongings to the raft, wondering if the packs will ride all right upside down. The mist rises a few feet, turning pink as the first sun clears the ridge above. A heron flies low over the water. A slight shift in the air announces this will be a warm one, a day for iced tea and melons at lunch, maybe sunbathing on the rafts, and swimming in smooth pools somewhere below the whitewater. The clatter of oarlocks echoes back from canyon walls, along with shouts and cheers.