For Thur. 2/20/97 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 739 words

"I want more," said Brad, a first-time whitewater rafter, after his first run down the South Fork American last Sunday in our big, 14-foot, self-bailing rafts.

We'd played it up so well the night before, trying to scare him silly, that the actual run could never equal the torrents of froth and foam that flooded his brain.

"O.K.," we said. "Let's run it again, and this time we'll take the Red-EE."

The Red-EE is the new, tiny, cheap, 10-foot wrap-bottom boat that Chad, Brad's older brother and my future son-in-law, and I just bought at the San Francisco River Conference. It was time for its maiden voyage.

Wild Bill, our 68-year-old river mentor, drove Chad, Brad, friend Brian, and me back to the put-in at Chili Bar for an afternoon run. Bill, being smarter than us, refused to get in. "It's a wrap-floor, eh? I'll wait at the bottom and pick up the pieces," he said.

We launched at 3 p.m., alone. All the other rafters had left before noon. Bill waved bye-bye from the shore, shaking his head. We climbed into our rubber duckie, which sank half-way beneath the flooded river under our combined weight, and rowed to the center to take on the first set of rapids.

Within 50 yards the boat was completely full of water. The first wave washed in and stayed there. We had no time to bail. Meatgrinder Rapid was dead ahead, a long train of standing waves that dwarfed our boat, now virtually a submarine with four stupid-looking guys sitting on top, goop-eyed, slack-jawed, and rowing like mad.

We did not go over the waves. We went through them. Each new curl washed over us at shoulder height, stinging us with frigid ice water, pushing us backward in the boat. We stopped rowing and just held on.

I watched as our last chance to quit, a trail back to the put-in, slipped away on the right. Coming out of Meatgrinder, with Horserace Rapid just ahead, Brad turned around and looked at me with terror in his face. "We're going to die!" he said. "This isn't funny. I'm scared." I couldn't help but laugh, though I felt a similar panic about three layers down. I knew we couldn't stop, unless we wanted to clamber over flood-scarred, tree-strewn canyon walls carrying the Red-EE. Actually, that seemed like a sane option, except that each second of hesitation pushed us further along.

"Hang on for the Horserace!" I yelled, whooping and laughing, trying to shift Brad into a daredevil mode. We entered the big drop and got creamed. We spun sideways, backwards, hit the wall, spun again, and caught a huge hole right where Brad was sitting. This wave put us under water for a few long seconds. When we popped up, Brad was gasping and spitting, his eyes like saucers.

"We're not going to make it! We're gonna die, I'm telling you. Let me out!"

I tried to laugh it off again, but this time it didn't work. I was too scared myself. I turned to Chad. He was pale. He looked like he was trying to recede into his brain and pretend he was dreaming. Brian was smiling, a nervous smile, but Brian is a daredevil.

"Row to shore," I said. "We have to bail this boat. More rapids are coming."

We emptied the boat, convinced Brad we needed him, and launched again. In a few moments we were flooded. We took turns paddling and bailing, inching our way down stream. By the halfway mark, we had reached a state of calm determination. We had to beat this river. We worked together and skirted the big waves that were so much fun during our first run.

At Troublemaker, a Class IV rapid today, Chad and Brad jumped out. "We're walking it," they said, and disappeared into the brush. Brian and I took the Red-EE through. We found it much more manageable with two people. We hit the drop, spun like a top, made a few unexpected detours, and came out right-side up. Chad and Brad hopped back in and we rowed to camp. We kissed the ground and had a good laugh.

Monday morning, ten Benicia teen-agers arrived, and we ran the river again, in the big boats. Three kids and a mom fell out at Troublemaker and swam awhile, but we all had fun. Everyone wants to go again, even Brad.