Page 29 of The Pilot's Good Girl
And we do capsize.
One moment we’re fighting the surge, the next we’re flung like rag dolls into the icy, violent current.
The world spins, whitewater crashing over my head, stealing the air from my lungs. I kick hard, fight to resurface, and gasp just before I’m dragged under again.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
I’ve been trained for this. I know what to do. But training doesn’t prepare you for the cold, or for the look on a camper’s face when they’re going under beside you.
I manage to grab a loose strap on the overturned raft, kicking hard to reach one of the guests who’s flailing nearby. “I’ve got you!” I scream, hauling her toward me, gripping the collar of her vest as we get slammed by another wave.
It feels endless.
Until finally, I spot a jagged rock jutting out of the water, dead center in the rapids’ path. It’s the only anchor in the chaos. I fight toward it, pulling the camper along with me, heart hammering, throat burning.
We make it.
I cling to the rock, planting my feet against its slippery surface. One by one, I grab hold of the other campers who’ve drifted close. I yank them up onto the rock, shouting over the roar of the water.
Doug?
He’s a few feet off, clutching a log, wide-eyed and paralyzed.
“Doug!” I shout. “Help me get them up!”
He shakes his head, frozen in place. “I—I can’t—”
“Damn it, Doug! We’ve got people in the water!”
But he doesn’t move. He just clings to that log like it’s his last lifeline.
So I do it myself.
Hands raw, legs trembling, I reach out to the last camper, a quiet boy named Marcus, just as he’s swept toward us by the current,catching his vest and dragging him up with everything I’ve got. My muscles are screaming, my vision swimming in front of me.
But I don’t let go.
Doug finally manages to climb up with us, and we’re six souls clinging to a rock in the middle of a raging river, soaked and freezing, our breaths coming in sharp, panicked gasps. Marcus’s arm is cut. One of the girls is sobbing. The others are too stunned to speak.
Below us, the rest of the rafting group has pulled off to the side and are yelling and waving, trying to figure out how to reach us.
“Don’t move!” someone shouts through a megaphone. “Stay where you are!”
Oh yeah? Not like we’re going anywhere.
I huddle the campers together, wrapping my arms around the youngest girl who won’t stop crying. “You’re okay,” I whisper. “I’ve got you. We’re okay.”
But inside, I’m shaking. Not just from the cold, but the fear that we might actually not be okay.
Then I hear it…a low thrum, faint at first, but growing louder, beating like a wild heartbeat across the valley. I look up, squinting through the mist and sunlight.
And I see it.
A chopper. Cutting across the sky. Fast. Determined.
My heart skips. There’s no way to know for sure, but I feel it in my gut. That’s not just any rescue chopper. It’s his.
Jake.
