Or maybe I should say, old school style with modern outfitters . . .
As the gorge narrowed the wind picked up, and the air temperature noticeably dropped. The calming frequency of the soft rush of the water shifted timbre. Now cascading, surging ever faster downward, as the amplitude of the waves, both in size and pitch, increased to a deafening roar.
We hung on tight with both hands as the V-shaped bow and rigid hull sliced into the first wave, but the second was much larger. And the small vessel skirted straight up its crest, reminiscent of a mighty ocean sailing ship in a surging Atlantic storm, but in miniature.
At the oarsman’s skillful command, the boat shifted sideways as it rolled down into the trough in time for the next wave to crest high above our heads. Crashing down, completely drenching us, the flare of the hull offering no protection. Filling the open compartments to the frame’s brim.
Our laughter could be heard above the roar of the rapids as we bailed.