The Raft

From the 2020’s

I heard the raft before I laid eyes on it. The gentle slap and patting of the river-water between the gaps of the bound together logs sounded like children throwing stones into a pond. I pushed through the thicket of weeds, breaking the stalks of some, until I found the raft wedged into the muddy bank of a slow eddy. 

The water depth was just above the knee. I plunked down into its clear coldness, stirring up silt from the pebbled bottom. It felt good to get some relief from the constant heat. The water eased the soreness of my knees, ankles and heels from the miles of walking across the prairie-land to reach this location. 

My plan was to cross the river via the well known ferry, but the raft seemed like an occurrence too fortunate to decline. The cool dampness of the river soaked into the fabric of my loose canvas pants, running up towards my privates. The ferry landing would be another mile or so upriver. I settled for the here and now of the raft. 

The raft was worn and old, held together by frayed cord that should have been replaced years ago. Loose in some places like the knuckles under the skin of your palm, but upon my putting pressure on it with my forearms, seemingly sturdy enough to hold my weight. Though its current lodging was peculiar I quickly shook the thought from my mind and lingered on the joy of finding it. 

Wide enough to hold three men laying down widthwise and lengthwise, a collection of four lengthy push-poles sat above the eddy on a cropping of stacked flint. Placed too carefully to have been done haphazardly, someone must have collected them and laid them tidy and in parallel. 

Still, unsure that my discovery was purely luck, I yelled aloud for its owner and scared a pack of small goldfinches from their hidden perch within some low swamp roses. They flew straight across the river’s width and into the shady branches of a sunlit alder. I yelled again, putting my hands on the sides of my mouth to ensure the noise would go farther and waited. No response save for a few croaking frogs and a rogue damselfly that darted under my arms, reviewed the raft, and then disappeared downriver. 

I wholly determined this raft must have been left for its next pilot. Plus, I promised myself I would use the raft solely to get across the river, and planned on returning it back to this exact place when I made my trip back in a few days. I was not much of an experienced pilot, but the glorious weather, and the calmness of the river led me to push the raft out into the river, and pull myself aboard. Fixing my hat further onto my head, I stood up with one of the push poles, planting it into the river’s floor to hold steady and gain my bearings.

With the water’s calm and sheen surface, I pushed further on across the river in the direction of the alder I had spied previously, yet the waters gripped the raft and began pulling it on their own. I acquiesced, to go diagonal, and set my course a little further downriver. Under the hot sun high above the river grew wider and flattened even further like a sheet of the bluest aluminum. The distance between myself and the farther shore seemed to further increase as I attempted to get nearer to it. 

I thought I heard some far away beckoning. I looked to the shoreline from which I had launched  and saw two distant figures, then a third, but couldn’t match the sounds to their blurry faces. They waved their arms at me, towards me. They jumped and lurched towards the shoreline. I wondered if the raft was theirs and they were beckoning me to return it to them. The current was too strong and my push pole sunk into soft mud below me. I lifted my hat to use it as a flag and acknowledge their gesture, but as I lifted it from my brow they turned away and disappeared into the thicket. 

I turned my sights towards my forward propulsion and heard the first hint of a sound my body immediately knew was unfortunate. In moments like these one wonders about their decisions, all of them, good and bad. About the whats and ifs, but it was too late to reconsider my recent decision to forgo the ferry. Neither shoreline was near, and I could not navigate towards either. 

The rumbling and roaring sounds grew louder and more discreet. My raft gained increased speed from a hidden hand below the surface, passing the raft over the water faster and faster with quick jolts and jerks. My push-pole now sank into nothing. I considered screaming. Instead I sat down on the rough logs and held the poor lashings as best I could, driving my fingers between the wood and the loose hemp. 

The raft buckled and bent as the surf greeted us with a churning. The frenetic speed of the river dashed us towards some force hidden in the tallest cloud of mist I’ve ever seen. Higher than the tallest trees. I bounced against the timbers, bruising my legs and tearing my pants as water shot up between the logs. The smaller bones in my fingers and toes cracked and fractured as the bouncing grew worse. The pain darted through my limbs. There was incredible roaring all about. I bent to lay flat, my feet now dipping into the cold waters and dragging a small wake that was soon erased by the rough waters. I could see nothing but a giant wall of clouds in front of me.

Then, as if suddenly lifted into mid-air by a kettle of soaring hawks, the world went quiet. I floated up and out over the lip of the unseen drop. The sunlight was strong and the world around me went bright. I heard my breath inside my ears and was soon being pressed into the raft by an immense gravity, pushing on my undersides for what felt like an afternoon. My hands were now lifted and floating, but my legs were stuck down in odd angles, my face was pressed heartily against a gap between the logs. 

My insides twisted in the weightlessness and the vomit ran out through my nose. Above, the sun spun. I must have attempted a dozen deep airless breaths before I hit the lower waters, having fallen farther than the height of two-dozen houses. I was then coarsely surrounded by the dimness of the deeper waters, plunged below at the level meant for the big fish. I saw nothing but the new silence. Before I had the chance to say my farewell prayer I shot to the surface. Half aware, I blew foam off the splintered wood that pushed jaggedly against my face. 

I recall additional shifting, akin to sliding unexpectedly off balance when poorly navigating an iced-over lake. Then it all went to sleep. 

I awoke what must have been days later looking up into the faces of strangers. They stood around me as I laid in someone's bed much smaller and prim than my own. My arms and legs were wrapped and bandaged in linen with thin rope and plastered pieces. A handsome, elderly lady carried over a perfumed and ornate hand mirror in order for me to regard her handiwork in caring for my face lacerations. She smiled proud yet pitiful without showing her teeth. She touched my arm where the bandages weren’t. Her fingers were warm and her nails were smooth. I fell back asleep. 

I remained in her home for several weeks being fed small spoons of soups and stews whenever I was not asleep, which was erratic and at odd hours. When I was able to stand a few weeks later, the stitches were removed from my face enabling me to speak full words again. I realized she must have been bathing my nakedness and I was initially mortified, but that feeling passed over time with her ever present generosity. We’d sit together on her porch, rocking in chairs and regarding the far hills, speaking in brief fits about the small notions of life and sharing some childhood memories. 

She had few words, but many meaningful gazes. Together we witnessed the autumn leaves bloom in their colorful glory of the impending cold air. Her home was to be mine too for some time, without debate. I would often excuse myself, saying how better I felt, how ready I was to return to the ways I was before, but she’d refuse the gesture, saying it wasn’t yet time. 

I fondly recall the long winter months of her welcome recuperation and care. Her twin rocking chairs which we’d gather inside from the porch once the night air grew too cold. She had ample wood though I did not know who chopped it. I felt guilty that I couldn’t do so for her. At night I welcomed the wafting hot air of her hearth and the slivers of cool draft that pulled towards the center of the room from the leaky window panes. We’d sit for hours, quietly.

Occasionally local townspeople and the wandering curious would come visit us. She charged them a small fee, which she tucked into her quilt-like apron, to witness me rocking on her porch, which now hung a rough sign defining who I was for the passerby. For a little more of a small donation they’d hear me tell the story with my creaky and worn vocals. I’d describe the day and events as I have just shared with you now. The story of the only known man to tumble over the falls and live to recount the tale.