1998
The Day We Almost Killed Kevin
By Gidon Schwarcz
Reprinted from the website of the New York Canoe and Kayak Club)
Kevin Shrader is really a very nice person. Let me go squarely on record on this point. It was not because of malicious intentions on our part. Stupidity, however, cannot be ruled out. This happened almost two years ago, in the record floods of January, l996. I suppose the statute of limitations has run out by now, so that we can admit the truth. Since everything was roaring out of its banks, I figured why drive to big water, it's right at our doorsteps. So we rendezvoused at the Moodna. My usual partners in crime, Jon Rafalowski and Tom Bohan, showed up Much to my surprise, Jon had Kevin Shrader along with him. Now, I knew Kevin from warm summer days at the Mongaup Wave and didn't visualize him tackling massively flooded rivers in January. However, as we looked at the river, I felt reassured. My famous last words were something like "Can't be too hard, all the rocks are covered". I also figured that since Kevin had just got married he had a death wish anyway, so he'd have to share partly in any blame if he messed up (note: Beth Shrader is really a very nice person). Our warm-up on the upper class I-II section didn't prepare us for what happened as we shot the dam at the Route 32 bridge. Thunderous twisting waves and crosscurrents engulfed us. I saw Kevin flip and roll partly back up. He nobly tried a few more roll attempts before giving up and swimming. I quickly stuck my stern near his hands, but the irregular water kept separating us. I suddenly realized that we had traveled a quarter mile in literally seconds, that the flat pool before the next rapid did not exist, and that we were face-to-face with Pylon Rapid, a vigorous class IV at even normal levels. As Kevin and his boat accelerated into the flush, I realized that I could no longer help him and would only get trashed myself running this flooded hell without scouting. I shot to shore, jumped out of my boat and ran down the bank with my throw bag. Jon and Tom were behind me. There was no sign of Kevin, or anything else for that matter, just massive waves crashing against the broken bridge pylons and disappearing into a cauldron. Just as I was thinking what I could tell his new bride and what I could tell the KCCNY safety chairman (not to mention Charlie Walbridge), out emerges a tire and very wet form from the opposite bank, a few hundred yards downstream. It took us the next half an hour to consider which would be the most sane way to run the rapid and get to Kevin, who we assumed was lapsing into hypothermia on the riverbank. Definitely not run the keeper hole on the left. Definitely not run the usual pillow against the right pylon, because it fed into another keeper hole at this level. Feeling guiltier and guiltier about keeping Kevin waiting, our debate about the proper route was interrupted by the appearance behind us of a beaming, dry, bearded man, bundled up in thick toasty pile and smiling from ear to ear. It was Kevin. How the heck he got to his car, changed his clothes, and got back to us on the other side of the river is still a mystery. Kevin assured us that he was happy as could be and wanted to watch us run the rapid right-side up. I was the probe. I slipped into a very tight tongue between trashy holes and ran it about 6 feet down into all sorts of unexpected garbage, which nicely back-ended me. As I rolled up, I saw Jon doing the same, with similar results. At this point, Tom opted for a sneak against the extreme right bank, and laughed at us as he smoothly paddled by, not having even gotten his face wet. The rest of the river was occupied by looking for Kevin's yellow Dancer as we negotiated surprisingly powerful waves. Jon even spent a few hours walking along the riverbank after our run, giving a second look. Kevin didn't seem to mind losing the boat much. In fact, he seemed a bit relieved to have lost the boat and to now have an excuse not to paddle. All's well that ends well. Kevin is still happily married to his unsuspecting wife. He now paddles a Whiplash and actually remains friends with Jon and myself, a testimony more to his good nature than to his judgement. And I have resolved never to take paddlers on water over their heads (well, almost never!). But more of those indiscretions in a future story.
