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doesn’t add up and it’s probably why things are not going so well.) The climbing rope that’s still attached to my harness gives me a yank now and then to remind me that this is a deadly situation.
    I hear shouting in the midst of the roaring and then I catch glimpses of Sebastian’s blue shirt between waves of muddy water. My partner is plastered to a boulder in the middle of the stream. His life vest is limp and flat. What the heck happened?
    Then I shoot past and all I can think is No! We can’t get separated! He can’t stop there; he’s only halfway across . But there’s no way to backpaddle and these thoughts are a complete waste of what little brainpower I have left. Up ahead, there’s a bend in the river like a crooked elbow. If I can just make it to the inside of that elbow, I will land on shore.
    Then, just before the bend, I slam up against the end of my rope. It yanks me underwater. I flail wildly. The life vest buoys me up, holding me about a foot beneath the surface, which is, of course, as good as being six feet down. Or in other words, drowning. I hold my breath as I reach for the clip to my harness, but then I realize that I’m moving slowly toward the shoreline. The rope, snagged somewhere behind me, is changing my course. I can see the shore, or at least I think I can—it’s an unmoving brown shadow, darker than the swirling brown water. But the pain in my head and the dancing black spots in my vision tell me I’m going to run out of air before I get there. I try a few froggie type swim movements, but with the pack and my running shoes and the inflated vest, I don’t travel in the least like an amphibian.
    Just when I think I have to unclip before I pass out, the water shoves me to the right and my toes strike the ground. I crawl up the underwater slope on all fours until my head is above water. Then I allow myself a little break to gasp and gag and cling to a friendly rock for a second. After my head stops pounding and my heart rate returns to only double its normal speed, I stagger up the beach, putting some slack in the rope. Collapsing butt-first onto the sand, I tug off my streaming pack and my inflatable vest.
    Then I look back for the other half of Team Seven.
    And there Sebastian is, only halfway across this homicidal river, still perched on that damn rock. He waves at me like we’re on vacation. I curse and squint to bring him into focus. He’s still wearing his sagging life vest and his pack and climbing harness, but there’s no rope clipped to his D ring. The end of the rope he holds up is attached to the ring at my waist; he grabbed my rope as I floated past. My first thought is: he nearly drowned me. My second: he may have saved my life.
    Now, if only I can repeat the favor.
    I know it’s crass, but I can’t help it: I check the time on my wrist unit. We’re losing the advantage I hoped we’d gain on the other teams by doing this suicidal river float. We’re burning daylight. I sigh and look back at Sebastian, holding up my hand, signing Wait . He signs it back.
    With water squishing out of my running shoes, I stagger up the rocky shore a few yards and then I walk the rope around the base of the tallest rock I can find there, leaving the end clipped to my harness. Then I face the river and Sebastian again and motion tying the end of the rope to his harness. He gives me a hands-on-head sign then a two-arm motion that says Are you out of your mind?
    I skip the crazy head sign and send the two-arm signal back— What else can you do? Then I check my watch again. Dramatically.
    Finally, he shrugs, ties the rope to his D-ring and gives me a little salute reminiscent of movies about Roman gladiators. We who are about to die salute you . Then Sebastian launches himself in an impressive cannonball into the current. The instant the rope goes slack, I run down the beach to snug it up and—I hope—pull my teammate toward the shore. When the rope tugs on my harness, I lean against