I scrambled down the boulders and climbed into my kayak. Although I’d given up the practice of cranking the ratchets in my cockpit eighteen precise times, I still had a careful pre-paddling ritual that took several minutes and served as meditation. First, I pulled the ropes that tightened my backrest and the bulkhead under my feet. I made sure no folds on my dry top would get hooked over anything that would prevent me from wet exiting if I needed to. I pulled on my neoprene skirt, snapping it over my cockpit from back to front. I slid on my helmet, maneuvered the microphone in front of my lips, and wiggled the earpiece so it was flush against my ear. I buckled the chin strap, making sure there were no twists, wrapped the cord of my comm system around the shoulder strap of my PFD: two loops and tuck the system into the chest pocket. Lastly, I held my paddle out, rolling it in my hands; it was easy to grab it backward, so I carefully felt the paddle blades, noting the feathering and angle. We turned on the radios. They beeped to indicate they were working. Harlan was fairly clear: “Check, check,” I heard. “Small left, small right, testing, testing.”

We pushed into the river. I was floating out, away from anything solid, anything I could hang on to. It was happening. Lava’s terrible bellow grew louder, beginning to cancel all other sound except Harlan’s voice. “We’re here, right now, in this moment; nothing else matters. Be clear and calm and concise.”

But unlike Upset Rapid where my actions had felt crisp and fluid, and my surroundings had slowed, now it was my body moving slowly with the canyon racing by. My movements felt labored, my muscles stiff and tense. I felt the power of the current beneath my hull as it hurled me toward Lava’s tongue. I wanted to put on the brakes and pull over, to rethink what I was doing, but there was no time.

“We’re about a hundred yards above now,” Harlan said. “Small left. Hold that line.” I tried to execute his command, but my response time felt seconds behind, and my paddle strokes felt mushy, like I was disconnected from the water. “Small left again. Hold that line. Right there. Nice calm strokes; good thoughtful strokes. Hold that line.”

I silently repeated our familiar mantra: “Relax. Breathe. Be at peace with the river.”

His voice became louder, more urgent. “Approaching those boils … fight the spin, fight the spin.” I was struck simultaneously from the right-side boils and the surging main left channel, but as I dug in with my paddle blade, fighting those invisible hands grabbing my bow, I reverted to a bad habit I thought I’d broken two years ago. I felt my upper body lean the wrong way, and I was instantly upside down, with no idea which direction my boat was pointing.