BOQUETE, Panama — Box or bag, I wondered. In a stream of consciousness flash, I was certain my lifeless body would return home in one or the other.
My second day in Panama doubled as Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, celebrated by many Latin cultures around Halloween in remembrance of those who have left this world. I had no prior knowledge of that macabre irony when I first visited John Miller of Boquete Outdoor Adventures to sample Central America’s emerging dream destination for whitewater kayaking five years ago. But on the eve of my return, the haunting memory lives on as we lumber toward the headwaters of the Rio Chiriqui along the Continental Divide near its southern terminus in Panama in John’s Toyota Land Cruiser.
The muddy road is as remote as they get, but it carries us to whitewater Shangri-La.
The Frijoles run is named for the bean-cleaning session John shared with pro paddler Andrew Holcombe the night before that brake-free first descent of this section a year earlier. In the optimistic mental game of Class V kayaking, clean beans (frijoles) hopefully translate to clean lines on the creek, so the duo named the first long, continuous rapid “String Bean,” following suit up to the last waterfall at “Frijole Finale.”
Maybe it’s fatigue, maybe nerves, a new boat or my first Class V creek run since shoulder surgery. Whatever the case, I’m not paddling my best. I’m hesitant but now committed. The drive-in could only be superceded by the hike out — steep, muddy, jungle, remote, brutal. From here on, the rocky river is the only realistic option.
I’m upside down in my kayak more often than normal today, although never in a critical spot, rolling easily. Still, it gets in my head. “Think less, paddle more,” I tell myself, and it seems to work.
Between flips, the scenery is stellar. It’s California-style steep creeking, with round, polished granite and cool slot drops separating clearwater horizons. The water level is on the high side of good, but increasing with every rain-fed tributary we pass. We quicken our pace due to flash flood potential.
Rounding a blind bend, I find John parked unexpectedly in an eddy. I attempt the move, late, momentarily surfing the seam of current and searching over my shoulder for a clean route before I wash downstream. I spin the boat and point it toward the left side of a boulder when I hear John call out, “Go right!” I abandon my plan and follow his advice toward a cascading ledge-drop ending in a deep pool. It looks friendly enough, so I follow the flow and set my paddle blade for a stroke.
But when I hit the lower ledge, my bow rises suddenly and all momentum is lost. I stall and stick to the sharp rocks, water flowing over my head.
The world turns white, but the brim of my helmet provides a small air pocket around my nose and mouth. I’m broached, but breathing, and try to push my back off the upper ledge to catch the river’s power and move forward. Before I can, the window closes and the air disappears.
John is right there, I think. Maybe he can grab the boat and help coax it out. Instead, the boat begins to slip farther backward into the fissure, and I’m fully pinned now, back against the wall, feet above my head in a jackknife position. There is nothing left to breathe, and I can feel the boat’s stern wedging deeper into the crevice. The water pressure is incredible. I try reaching my hand up, then the paddle, but can’t feel the surface. It has been more than 30 seconds now, and I’m doubting help will come. This is how people die on rivers.
The air in my lungs begins to expire. I’m feeling weak, going gray. The dying part will suck, but it could be worse. This is painless, I think, fading away. Then I think of my mother. She’s going to be mad when the box arrives.
It’s dreamlike, but the reality of finality sparks the survival instinct. I can feel the edge of the ledge below my right elbow. Maybe a cave, maybe a coffin. There’s not enough space for me and the kayak, but I can’t get out. I force myself deeper into the cave, limbo my shoulder and head beneath the ledge, and manage to slide the kayak off my waist as my trapped legs go limp. I claw my way to the bottom of the river, praying there is a hole big enough for my body to squirm through to the other side. I realize this could be my tomb. Dead or alive, I may never come out.
I’ve been underwater more than a minute now, and there is no time for second-guessing. I swim to the bottom of the river and force my way through the gap. I can see light again, the surface, and my life vest carries me back to air just before I black out completely.
With no strength to swim, the river pushes me over two more drops. I watch helplessly as my paddle washes downstream. John is in the river now too, swimming for me, then the boat I’d pushed out of the entrapment as I wash into a pool behind a boulder. Papito, another local paddler, helps me to the safety of the bank.
After a time, I hike back up to look at the death trap. It’s almost invisible but for the slightest swirl in the aerated whitewater that drains through the sieve of rock. No one knew it was there. Another in our group had stopped three feet upstream and never saw it.
Shaken, I run two more small drops with the spare breakdown paddle, then carry my boat out to the lone trail just above the biggest drop, Frijole Finale.
Papito hikes out with me as the others paddle down to the waiting Nite Train.
Before long, I’m wishing I had paddled the remainder of the river and pause to rest from the weight of my boat and circumstance. The rain begins. Pouring. I look at my watch and it strangely reads 99:59.59. I ponder, one second more?
“You were gone for a long time,” Papito says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “I thought I died.”
“But you didn’t,” he reassures.
“Nope. One more day.”
“Muchas dias mas,” he smiles, many more days.
Si. Viva Panama!
