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entered the canyon and was being swept swiftly toward the treacherous Mal Paso San Pedro. The raft bounced from wall to wall. It crashed into the rocks, tilted on its sides, was tossed over falls, and swept through foaming rapids. I held on desperately, closing my eyes and praying, God, God. Then the raft dove under again, taking me with it. I rammed into rocks so violently that I was twice thrown into the air, landing in the water, vulnerable to the torments of the river, sucked down to its depths. If I hit another rock, I would be smashed to pieces. I was running out of air. When I resurfaced, I saw the bound logs of the raft nearby. I managed to grab hold of them and climb aboard again.

The horrible dance of death went endlessly on. The current was incredibly swift. The raft was swept along like lightning. There was another small bend in the river, and then, still far away, I saw it: a mountain of rock in the middle of the river, almost blocking its entire breadth. The water pounded against it with a terrible roar. White foam sprayed in all directions, the white-capped maelstrom swirling at the foot of the terrifying crag, and I knew that I would never make it past.

I lay down on the raft facing the stern, not wanting to watch as death approached. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and clutched at the straps for all I was worth. There was a crash. I felt nothing. I was simply flying through the air, then landing back in the water, my eyes still squeezed shut.