MEMOIR
My Whitewater Smackdown
From boatman to bozo in the Grand Canyon
October, 1982
I teetered on a tall boulder in the depths of the Grand Canyon, studying Crystal Rapid. A tongue of jade-green river flowed as smooth as glass for a hundred yards smack into a standing wave that grew and grew with each pulse, until it broke in an explosion that rocked the ground.
We were running in two groups to take photos and give Joe and me a chance to watch the veterans. Our passengers dotted the shore with cameras ready.
Joe had been my boss on the South Fork of the American River in California where I had guided one and two-day trips for the summer. His military training and wicked sense of humor professed one rule: “Don’t fuck up!”
I was one week into my first training trip for a Grand Canyon guide license. I swelled with pride thinking of all the rapids I had rowed successfully so far. I always felt an affinity for water from swim teams to body surfing in Hawaii. Maybe I had some magical connection to water that would make me a master river guide.
Joe stood on tiptoe and pointed upstream. “Here they come!”
Our leader’s raft crested the lip of the rapid, stern aimed towards the right shore. His four passengers, still as…
