Oxygen
The Russian river is roaring with anger. White foam spitting from the mouth of the tributary. The crashing of waves echoing off the canyon walls as the sun blankets us in warm calm.
In my boat, the bottom of my shorts have been soaked, as the water splashes in. I scrunch my toes in anticipation, sandals squeaking. Sun-block runs down into my eye, stinging. I wipe it out — shake my head. Specks of river water flinging to every side.
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Behind me, I hear the oar-master yelling commands. My knuckles taut, white from griping my oar, pulling it hard in the water — like a 10lb weight going the other way.
At the bend, we come up over this huge rock. The front of our boat goes up, up, up, and boom — we capsize.
Suddenly my whole body is baptized in this unholy water. Dark, murky — a hundred cross-currents pushing and pulling my body. I’m not floating up. My breath, starts to run out. I feel my lungs shrinking — smaller and smaller, as I purse my lips. Screaming in the water, only loud enough to cause more panic.
