The boat behind ours saw what happened: our raft
had hit a rough spot, folded in on itself like a spring-
loaded tortilla, then snapped open, ejecting me like a
missile several feet into the air, dropping me into the
water a couple of feet behind our boat. Fernando hadn’t
been able to hold onto me: he needed both hands to keep
his grip on a strap attached to the raft, his body propelled
parallel to the river, like a flag in a stiff wind.

Fernando reminded us that we still had more water
to navigate, but he reassured us that “Indigestion” was
the worst we’d encounter. He gave me the option of
sitting out the next few sets of rapids, but I decided to
keep paddling, to keep my body doing the thing that
bodies do in rafts on rivers. I felt compelled to finish
what I'd started.

When we landed a couple of hours later, there were
hot showers, cold beer and soda, a slide show of the day’s
action I couldn’t watch, and the merciful return of my
normal breathing pattern. I drank a Coke that tasted

"You only live once. Challenge yourself.”

like ambrosia, each carbonated bubble a new marvel in
my mouth. I opened a bag of potato chips whose smell
intoxicated me like a lotus, each greasy, crunchy bite a
delight on my tongue. I had let myself become one with
the Pacuare, and the Pacuare gave me back.

As I sat at a blue plastic table covered in a tablecloth
with frayed edges, I noticed a dead butterfly on the
ground. It was lying on its side, yellow and black wings,
antennae stacked perfectly atop each other, no outward
sign of struggle. I wondered how it felt in the moments
before death, had it fought or let go? I wondered what
would have happened had I struggled against the
Pacuare, as I had against the American River.

T felt a tear slide slowly down my right cheek and got
up from the table to check out the wares of the locals.
There were T-shirts for sale. Mine, for which I happily
plunked down $20 US said: