Rescue on the River -- The Legend of Precious: Part I

Her lobster claw hands weren't sexy, and no woman alive would envy her sad little tuft of hair, but that was hardly the point. She had three holes, including an open mouth that formed a perfect circle.

When Jim pulled her out of the box that day on the Mattawamkeag River in Maine, Jon said, "Isn't she precious."

So Precious she was, from that moment on.

There were 14 of us canoeing for a few days, and Precious was a birthday gag for Jim. The year before, one of the hairiest, roundest guys had dressed in drag and given him a lap dance. This time, he got a plastic lady.

Somebody dared to inflate her and she made her way around the campfire like a hot potato. To be clear, nobody used her in the unimaginable ways the manufacturer intended. We just inspected, imagined, and laughed. The trick was to avoid getting caught on camera with her, lest the photos find their way out of context.

And so we joked and drank and ate and spent another summer night in the New England woods with good buddies. Life doesn't get much sweeter.

In the morning, we stood on a rock looking out at the whitewater. We'd portaged our stuff around after breakfast and were now contemplating making a run down the rapids. This was serious stuff -- standing waves a few feet high; boulders, eddies, and hydraulics scattered all about the place.

Flat bottom canoes, a lack of helmets, and a general shortage of canoeing prowess could not overcome our group lust for adrenaline.

Jon, a part-time rafting guide, was shaking as he gave us pointers on how to navigate our way down. Someone asked if he was nervous. "No," he lied, "That's the hangover."

He and his partner walked off up the shoreline to go first and show us the way. A few minutes later they reappeared on the water, cackling, paddling like hell, and looking good.

Until they reached the first big standing wave. The bow of their canoe went straight up and they spilled out like dirt from a dump truck.

At that moment, the rest of us divided silently into two camps. In one group were those who suddenly realized we were idiots – if the only experienced whitewater guy among us flipped on the first wave, we were all doomed.

In the other group were those who suddenly felt an enormous relief – if the only experienced whitewater guy among us flipped on the first wave, there was no pressure to succeed.

Nobody backed out.

Two by two, we headed upstream to give it a go. Some of us had dry bags filled with air for extra flotation. I think some had inner tubes (that makes no sense, but it's how I remember it). Others had little but their boat, their clothes, and a life jacket.

The second canoe dump-trucked on the second wave. The third flipped sideways.
Once you were in the water, you had to bob, flail, and cling to anything that would float to make it through the rest of the rapids, a few hundred yards of gasping for air and trying not to panic.

Dave later said that when he was underwater trying to figure out which way was up, he thought to himself, "I have a wife and two kids who count on me. What am I doing?" When he reached the surface, he saw an eagle flying overhead and knew everything would be OK. Nobody else saw that eagle.

I hopped in with my old high school buddy Mike, a mellow soul who'd met most of the other guys for the first time on the first day of the trip. They called him "Iron Mike." Through luck alone, we made it about a hundred yards before the river took control and tossed us out like the rest.

The water was deep, fast, and foamy. I bounced off a rock. It felt like I was underwater forever before I pulled myself up on the upside-down boat, took an urgent breath, and turned around to look for Mike. He was clinging to the other end of the canoe.

I said the only thing that came to mind: "You have a huge snot on your face." "Thanks," he replied, and wiped it away.

The river took us around the bend into what later became known as The Bonus Round, another stretch of brutal waves we couldn't see from the top of the run. Spitting, hoping, and holding on to that canoe anyway possible, we made it to the end and caught an eddy to the shore.

Everybody who'd gone before us was there, one guy so dazed he couldn't speak. Most of us were giddy with nerves.

Five canoes in, five canoes flipped. Then came the sixth. Miraculously, Jamie and Jay had managed to stay upright, perhaps because their extra beef gave them extra ballast. They looked like they were sitting on the water, though, because their canoe was totally swamped.

Then we waited. And waited. And started to worry. Because Jim and Tommy did not appear.

Nobody wanted to admit we'd been playing the odds. It was way too easy to get hurt, badly hurt, doing what we'd just done, and the delay of the last canoe made us all wonder if we'd tempted fate too long.

We could not see much from where we were. We just stood there staring at the tail end of The Bonus Round and hoping, hoping Jim and Tommy would show up soon.

And then somebody yelled. "I see something."

We all scanned the water frantically.

"It's Precious!...And she's got Tommy!"

And there they were, crashing up and down the final waves. Tommy wrapped around a blow-up doll, his arms around her neck, his ankles around her legs. When they reached shallow water, Tommy jumped to his feet and shouted, "She saved my life!"

Jim floated into view hanging on to their flipped canoe, and we all began to celebrate.

For the rest of the day and week, we compared stories, relived the fear, and made fun of each other's reactions. One guy swore he'd never go on whitewater again. We all admitted we'd been incredibly stupid and lucky and would probably never do it again. Precious, our plastic hero, said nothing.