In the lead position opposite me at the front of the raft, Deborah bears forward and sinks her paddle into the current with all her might, her grunting louder than the roaring water. I double over too, sweeping my paddle in and out of the water to match her pace. The others follow suit and we row like our lives depend on it. Because judging by the immense height of the waves, our lives actually might.
My heart skips wildly as the nose of the raft launches skyward. We’re propelled forward by another wave rushing in from the side, only to slam abruptly into the trough. A wall of water sprays over the nose of the boat, soaking everything and nearly pushing me over the edge into the whitewater.
I wedge my wet tennis shoes harder into the sidewall, managing to keep my position and continue rowing, determined not to stop even though the next wave is rising up to send us airborne again.
“Woo hoo!” Josh crows. “That’s right, ladies! Row, row, give me all left now!”
We obey. The raft bucks like an angry bull, the momentum of the current impossibly fast, whirling,unstoppable, unpredictable, as we cascade down the flight of whitewater that is the Devil’s Stairs.
“Last wave! Really dig,” Josh calls. “Deborah, Kaia—do not let us hit this motherfucker sideways!”
“My arms are on fire!” Deborah screams, but she’s laughing.
There’s so much water splashing into my eyes that I can barely see. My messy bun has come mostly undone and is plastered across my forehead. My arms burn, my lungs are screaming with exhaustion, and my heart is pumping like I’ve sprinted a mile. But I realize with an incredible rush that it feels good—damn good. Even the pain. I feel … well, alive.
As the raft sails out of the last wave and eases onto a stretch of smoother water, we all erupt in cheers. “Hell yeah!” cries the woman with the blonde pigtails and red bandanna, and she offers me a high-five.
I grin and slap her palm, then turn to watch the raft behind us come careening down the Devil’s Stairs. Watching it from the other side of the rapid is every bit as incredible.
“Don’t flip, Flip-Flop,” Josh calls out, motioning for us to join in as he repeats the words in a sing-song voice. “Don’t flip, Flip-Flop!”
A few of the women join in half-heartedly, but the chanting dies down as Bryan’s raft makes it safely down the rapids without flipping, cruising toward us as the gear boats enter the staircase behind them. The women in Bryan’s boat raise their paddles and start splashing toward us, bruising for a water fight.
“Hey! Donotsplash me unless you want your river wraps to have soggy tortillas!” Macy calls as she glides our way. She pulls alongside our rafts that bob in the calm water, then begins to unpack coolers and ready the yellow jugs of potable water. “Your choices are ham, turkey, or whateverthis ‘vegan cheese’ crap is!” she says, dangling a baggie in the air.
After lunch, the rest of the afternoon passes in a water-and-adrenaline-soaked blur. Even Allie and Nikki seem to forget about the missing satellite phone for a while, laughing and smiling with the rest of us as we pull the rafts to the shallows for a brief rest and bathroom break.
For the most part, everyone pees in the river. But a few people’s river wraps haven’t settled very well after the tumult of the Devil’s Stairs. Bryan doesn’t try to hide his irritation as he lugs the groover onto the rocks at the base of the cliffs, struggling to pitch a privacy tent that keeps tipping over.
Deborah and I watch from our side-by-side seats at the front of the raft. “Oh Lord, I can smell it from here,” she mutters, eyeing the poor souls lining up on the narrow strip of sand behind the groover. Then she lowers her voice. “I don’t know about you, but when I read ‘glamping’ on the website description, I did not think this would be the bathroom situation.”
“It’s rustic, at best,” I agree, laughing. “I guess I didn’t even think about how that would work.”
“Glad I went with ham instead of turkey,” Pam murmurs, shaking her head. “Seems like the lunches are a little rustic, too.”
I nod, hoping that’s the last we’ll see of the “river wraps.” I slipped mine into the trash bag after a couple of bites, feeling sure I was eating yesterday’s cheese that had fallen from the cooler into the dirt.
When it becomes clear that the slow-moving groover line is bound to take a while, Deborah, Pam, Imani, and I decide to cool off in the calm water near shore, wading in the shallows.
“My husband and I got food poisoning on our honeymoon,” Pam says, glancing in the direction of thegroover. “It was this ultra-posh resort, and we spent the whole trip taking turns in the bathroom.”
Imani giggles, smoothing her headscarf. “That’s nothing. Try two toddlers in a tent—after your husband lets them eat five s’mores each. It was likeThe Exorcistin there.”
We all laugh. But my chest aches with longing at the easy way they talk about their loved ones—their husbands, their children.
“I have nothing to add to this conversation, thank the Lord,” Deborah says. “You got a story, Kaia?”
I rack my brain, but the only story I come up with isn’t mine—it’s Parker’s.
I hesitate, then give in. “My husband convinced me to go to a ‘hot wings’ festival a few years ago. He walked right up to the tasting table and started with the ‘Ghost-Pepper Ring of Fire,’ thinking the name was funny. And then … well, let’s just say they didn’t have nearly enough port-a-potties for a hot-wings festival.”
“Oh Lord,” Deborah crows. “He’s a brave one!”
“Yeah, he was,” I say carefully, watching the late afternoon sunlight glimmer on the water.
That one word in past tense is enough to stifle any follow-up questions. But after a minute, Deborah reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry, hon.”
I nod, turning away. I feel exposed, somehow. “I’m going to dry off,” I say, then trudge through the thigh-deep water and climb back into the raft.