Grant paddled two quick strokes next to his guide. For the first time, he could see over the rapid. The smooth sheets of water at the top of the fall churned into a foamy meringue as they spat over the edge of the rocks and then tumbled into a turbulent frenzy at the bottom. Grant wasn’t sure what made him more nervous: the twelve-foot fall ahead of him or the swirling whirlpool where the water pounded into the river below.
He’d seen a number of hydraulics over the years, but this one was by far the largest. When water cascaded over a large rapid, it would occasionally strike submerged rocks at the bottom that caused the current to recirculate on itself, creating a whirlpool or a hydraulic, as paddlers called them. Rafters and kayakers stuck in hydraulics often had to be pulled out. Both he and Dasho carried throw bags with thirty feet of rope each. He hoped they wouldn’t need them.
“I watch for you at bottom,” Dasho said. Taking long smooth strokes equally on both sides, he guided his kayak through the water straight for the right fork.
Grant caught his young guide’s mistake as soon as he made it. Dasho glanced over his shoulder just before reaching the top of the fall to yell his final words of encouragement, “Don’t forget to have fun!”
A slight error, really, but as Grant had learned, any misstep under dangerous conditions had a way of compounding itself, like an avalanche picking up power as it gathered snow on its slide down the mountain. The slight twist in Dasho’s body caused his kayak to drift off center, just a few inches to the left. The powerful current then exacerbated the problem, pushing him further off his line. Dasho was quick to recover, digging in on the left side of his kayak, paddling ferociously. The bow of his boat swung to the right just as he crested the fall.
He’d overcorrected and his maneuver to straighten his kayak cost him much of his forward momentum.
Grant held his breath, watching from the upper pool. Dasho hit the churning water below nose-first at a steep angle. Grant flinched as the kayak flipped. His guide’s body twisted unnaturally when it slapped the water. A queasy feeling spread through Grant’s stomach.
“Roll, Dasho. Damn it, roll!” he shouted, but he knew his voice couldn’t be heard over the thundering water.
The pale underside of the blue kayak spun in the whirlpool as water pummeled it from the fall above. Dasho should have either rolled or exited the kayak by now, but Grant saw no sign of him. His guide was either trapped or unconscious. In either case, he needed help.
Grant knew he had to descend the rapid quickly. A checklist of his options flashed through his mind. Landing on top of the other kayak would create a whole new set of problems. A glance to shore confirmed his earlier assessment—no way to go around. His only choice: time his fall just right.
With a firm, two-handed grip, Grant lifted his paddle in the air and let his boat drift forward slowly. Another few seconds, he guessed, watching the boat below. His heart pounded as if he’d been paddling hard, although he had yet to move. Just a second more. His breathing quickened.
Now.
The moment Dasho’s kayak spun to the left, Grant sank his paddle deep into the water. His arms and back burned with his effort. He hit the rapid dead-on. The roar of the water and his own pulse drummed in his ears. Pressing his feet into the kayak’s plastic footrests, he leaned his long torso into his last strokes. The drop came so quickly, he didn’t even register it until he felt the splash of his impact.
Grant squinted through the cold Himalayan spray.
There!
Dasho’s boat bobbed upside down only a few feet away. Four quick strokes and he bumped against it. The turbulent current now rocked his own kayak; he was caught in the same hydraulic that trapped his guide. Grant fought back the chill of fear that crept up his spine. If they were both to live, he had to focus on the task ahead. He formed his plan. First, he would right Dasho, and then he would worry about getting them out of the swirling hole.
Gripping his paddle in his right hand, Grant grabbed for Dasho’s kayak with his left. His fingers slipped on the wet hull. He tried a second and then a third time with the same result. He needed a new plan. Leaning as far to the side as he dared, he searched the frigid water for any hold on the boat’s underside. He took rapid, shallow breaths to avoid sucking in the water that splashed around him.
He felt the lip of the kayak’s opening. The spray skirt was attached, which meant that Dasho was still inside. He clenched his numb fingers around the narrow lip. Bracing his legs against the walls of his own kayak, Grant jerked his left arm upward while he torqued his body to the right.
Dasho’s kayak started to roll. A rush of triumph surged through Grant.
Then a gush of current from the hydraulic hit Grant’s kayak on the rear quarter, twisting him unexpectedly. He struggled to compensate for the jarring movement while maintaining his balance and his grip, but the water overpowered him. His hand was ripped from the other boat.
He flipped.
Upside-down and spinning underwater, Grant opened his eyes. He couldn’t see through the turbulent green. His lungs ached. And, he realized, he no longer held on to his paddle. The urge to panic threatened to consume him faster than the frigid water enveloping him.
His only hope was to follow his training. As he’d practiced many times, Grant tilted his ear to his right shoulder, bent his torso to the same side, and then swiveled his hips forcefully. Nothing. He attempted his roll again, but the current was too strong.
His vision darkened. Grant knew he only had seconds before he blacked out. He recalled his final option—a wet exit. Reaching both hands to the top of his kayak, he grasped the neoprene loop where his spray skirt attached to the kayak’s opening and pulled toward his chest. It released. He gripped the sides of the opening and pushed himself out of boat. The moment he was clear, his PFD, the personal flotation device, shot him to the surface.
Air.
He gasped deeply, then choked on the spray permeating the air around him. A second later, he caught a clean breath. He was going to be okay.
After a few more cautious breaths, Grant’s head cleared. Dasho. His guide’s kayak still bobbed upside down a few feet away. Grant kicked hard, swimming toward the other boat. Just as he reached his goal, the whirlpool sucked him under.
Instinctively he grabbed his knees, tucked his chin, and curled into a ball. Grant remembered that somewhere underneath the cold water, large rocks created the hydraulic, and colliding into them would worsen his situation. He had no choice but to have faith in his PFD and the circulating current to regurgitate him back up. A few seconds later, he shot to the surface again. Breathing carefully but deeply, he surveyed the standing waves around him. Dasho’s boat had spun farther away to the other side of the waterfall, and his own kayak was nowhere to be seen.
With a tightness in his chest, Grant realized that he could never swim against the current and reach Dasho. His arms were losing sensation, and his legs were slowing. Adrenaline would keep him going for another minute, but then hypothermia would win. Grant realized that to save himself from drowning, he had to get out of the hydraulic. He’d have to find a way to reach Dasho from the other side.
To escape the whirlpool on his own, he would have to execute a technique he’d only read about: the elevator maneuver. He recalled that the hydraulic’s current was strongest on the surface; even the best swimmer was no match for its power. Underwater, however, once the initial undertow subsided, an opportunity existed to push through the whirlpool. The key to the maneuver lay in allowing the whirlpool to suck him under, like pressing the down button on an express elevator, and then at the deepest and weakest spot, to swim out of the water column. If successful, he would pop out ten or fifteen meters downstream.
Moments later the whirlpool jerked him under again. Rather than resisting, Grant curled into a fetal position as he shot downward. This time he felt no fear, his mind strangely clear but for the immediate task before him. The moment he felt his momentum slow, Grant kicked as hard as his numb legs would
allow while pulling with his arms. He made progress, but tired quickly. Then, his foot struck something solid—the underwater boulder causing the hydraulic.
A thought occurred. Why not use the rock to push myself out?
It was the wrong idea.
Planting his right foot on the rock for leverage, he pushed with the last of his energy, but instead of launching himself downriver, his foot slipped on the polished surface of the rock and wedged itself deep between the boulder and another rock beside it. Grant didn’t have time to register what he’d done. A rush of current twisted his body. He couldn’t possibly hear the cracking of his shin over the muffled roar of the water in his ears, but he experienced the splitting of his lower leg as a white light that flashed through him, as if he’d been struck by lightning.
Grant realized he was going to drown.
A cold blackness closed in around him. After the initial flash of agony, he no longer felt the pain in his leg, nor did he experience the burning in his lungs. Even the roar of the water faded into the darkness. Grant’s body went limp. Enveloped in a cool cocoon, he slipped into peaceful dream. He dreamed of flowing like the river, as if he and the water had become part of the same substance.
CHAPTER 2
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA
A GUITAR RIFF RIPPED THROUGH the bank of speakers suspended over the stage. Each of the five thousand audience members stood, some on their tiptoes for a better view, most with arms in the air, and all bathed in the colorful stage lights that washed over them. Tears rolled out of the closed eyes of more than a few women in the front rows.
Brian Brady grinned at the crowd, enjoying the frenzy he’d created. Sweat ran from his silver-streaked hair down the sides of his tanned face. God, he loved this. Twenty years, and he never tired of the rush of the crowd’s adulation.
In synch with the drummer punctuating the end of the song, Brady raised both arms, embracing his people. He called out hoarsely through the wireless microphone attached behind his ear, “Let me hear you one more time!”
In unison the congregation responded, “Praise Jesus!”
“Who’s down with JC?”
“We are!” they screamed.
“If you are on the Lord’s team, what are you?”
“Saved!”
“If you are out of Christ, what are you?”
“Condemned!”
“We, the Army of the Righteous, shall bring light to the darkness,” Reverend Brady proclaimed in his smooth southern baritone, punching his fist in the air to the cheers of the congregation.
He lowered his arms palms down. Then he grinned at the crowd, showcasing his newly bleached teeth. “Can we chat?” He took a folding chair from a techie who rushed from backstage to meet him.
“You go, Reverend,” a voice called out from the middle of the congregation. A chorus of laughter sprinkled through the church.
Brady settled his two-hundred-pound frame into the chair, alone in the center of the stage. He straightened the lapel on his Armani suit, black with a fine blue pinstripe. The band Rapture stood behind him stage right; opposite them the thirty-member choir stood on risers, their crimson robes blowing from the powerful fans hidden offstage. Surveying the audience as they anticipated the topic of this Sunday’s sermon, Reverend Brady spoke in the disarming tone he used to connect with his people, as if he were sharing iced tea with each of them alone in their living rooms.
“I am troubled, my friends. I’m troubled with the corruption of our once great nation.” He paused, allowing the thought to sink in. When he spoke, he did so deliberately, enunciating each syllable so that the echo in the cavernous New Hope Church of God wouldn’t muffle his words.
“Corruption in our country takes many forms: the eradication of religion from our schools, our children’s fascination with the occult in the Harry Potter and Twilight books, sex and violence in our television shows, politicians who care more about saving their elections than saving their constituents.”
Leaning forward on the edge of his seat, he continued, “But today, we will talk about Satan’s more subtle temptations. My friends, I’m here to warn you that sin targets not just the unfaithful. It targets you as well.”
Murmurs spread through the congregation. Brady immediately noticed the man in the front row who sat ramrod straight, perched on his seat like a cobra waiting to strike. His crew cut was sprinkled with signs of premature gray, the deep crease between his eyes adding to the illusion of age beyond his years. The stage lights brought out the worst of the man’s eczema: the top layer of skin on his face was flaking away, exposing the red flesh underneath. Brady paused to give thanks to the Lord for his own flawless complexion.
“Now, I don’t wish to cast stones at anyone ...”
Brady rose from his chair, descended the marble steps to the front row, and placed a hand on the shoulder of a midthirties blonde in a pastel cotton dress that complemented her athletic physique. Brady scanned the aisle to see where his camera guy was kneeling and turned his body to block any shot of the eczema man sitting two seats away. He was always conscious of who was being projected onto the giant screen suspended over the stage.
“But last Thursday evening, when I was picking up some groceries, I noticed Barbara Howell here coming out of the yoga studio in the shopping center off Montevallo Road.”
Barbara gazed up at the reverend as a child might look at a parent, knowing she was in trouble but unsure of the nature of her infraction. Brady smiled at her indulgently. “First Corinthians instructs us that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. By exercising, we honor God, who created us in his image. Now, I know Barbara strives to live according to the ways of our Savior, but”—he paused, holding his index finger in the air—“even well-intentioned activities can be fraught with sinfulness, if we are not vigilant.”
At the word sinfulness Barbara’s expression grew more concerned. The entire congregation watched her, as Brady knew they would. “You may think that yoga, with its stretching and breathing techniques, is a peaceful way to exercise and relax after a hard day’s work. But don’t be fooled. Yoga is not Christian. Yoga is Hindu in origin and practice. Of course, these teachers won’t portray it as religious at first, but one day you’re touching your toes, and then before you know it, you’re chanting in Sanskrit, trying to find God within yourself.”
Reverend Brady’s grip tightened on Barbara’s shoulder. He looked from her to the vaulted ceiling forty feet above them, increasing the volume of his voice. “God, our Father almighty, creator of the universe, and judge over all mankind: these so-called yogis would have you believe that the supreme being is located in a breath or in a flower.” He shook his head in disgust. “But we know better, don’t we?”
“We do,” the congregation replied in unison.
“You tell me, what is the one and only path to God?” he shouted.
“Through our Lord Jesus Christ,” they responded.
Brady lowered his voice again. “If it were possible to reach God through self-discovery, then why would he have sent Jesus to us?”
The reverend looked into Barbara’s reddened eyes and brushed her tearstreaked cheek. “I don’t fault you, dear. The devil comes in many disguises. In Second Corinthians, chapter eleven, verse fourteen, Paul writes, ‘Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.’” Brady prided himself on his facility with the holy scripture and his ability to come up with a verse to fit any occasion.
“From the beginning of time, Satan has targeted the fairer gender. Just as Eve succumbed to the temptation of eating the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, women today flock to these yoga centers, seeking to find themselves through meditation and other Eastern practices that promote selfknowledge. But hasn’t that fruit been tasted before? These practices will not lead you to God; they will not erase your sins. They will only open your hearts and your minds to dark influences. Our apostle John says in chapter one, verse ten, ‘If they come any to you and bring not this doctrine, receive him n
ot into your house.’ Whose house do you want to be in, Barbara?”
In a whisper she replied, “God’s house.”
Pulling her out of her chair and to her feet, he asked, “Are you ready today, Barbara, to reaffirm your belief in Jesus as the only way to everlasting life?”
“I am.”
Brady raised his hands in the air palms up, and Barbara mimicked him. “In the name of our Savior Jesus Christ, you are forgiven, Barbara Howell. Follow in the Lord’s path, and you shall receive his grace.” Relieved and drained, she collapsed back into her seat as a runner might fall to the curb in exhaustion after crossing the finish line of a race.
Climbing back onstage, the reverend addressed the whole congregation. “Today we have witnessed the courage of one woman. Do you also have the courage to accept Jesus?”
“We do!” they shouted.
“These are precisely the dangers I discuss in my humble little book.” Brady glanced at the giant screen above the stage that displayed a ten-foot-tall projection of the cover of his recently published book, Why Is God So Angry? Under the bold lettering of the title, and the even larger type of his name, was a picture of Brady gazing upward at a wooden cross suspended in a dark, foreboding sky. “Thanks to your support, we now have over three hundred thousand copies of the book in print.” The crowd erupted in cheers. “And that’s only four months after being published!”
Brady paused to allow the applause to die down. Then he began to quote from the first chapter of his book: “The calamities our country has faced in recent times—the hurricanes along our coast, terrorism on our soil, the collapse of our economy—are punishments directed at our formerly Christian nation, which, like the Jewish people in the Old Testament, has lost its way from God. The evils of our permissive society have turned us into a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah: drugs, abortion, promiscuity, and”—he raised his voice—“our so-called tolerance of other religions that encourage the worship of false idols that have polluted the minds of our citizens.” Brady lowered the pitch of his voice but increased the volume even more. “We have forgotten the warning of First Timothy, chapter two, verse five: ‘For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.’”
The Breath of God Page 2