I've seen a few of these on here before, so I figure I'm not too far out of line for posting this here. As far as I can tell, it doesn't really explicitly say anything about my character. Do I need some idiotic "yay life is tough mut I'm like nails" summary? Read, and rip, fellas –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– The swollen Talkeetna churns silty brown, fed from the glacial meltoff of hot, June days. As our packrafts, loaded with mountain bikes and packs, race downstream, doubt surfaces. I ferry the loaded, piggish raft around rapids threatening to capsize me. I’ve been packrafting for three years, I tell myself. Besides, I’ve been training all spring for this, I can manage a few rapids. My spirits buoyed by sunshine and charged on adrenaline, I relax, but it’s short lived. My dad’s raft flips downstream of me. Rather complacently, I wonder how I’m going to fish him out. Wait... what did he hit? I’ve gotta miss it! My hubris replaced with the first tendrils of panic, I paddle to avoid a massive standing wave when the river opens below me. The hole, a frothing maw sufficient to swallow a VW bug, grabs my raft. I brace for the shock and spill into the frigid river, plunged into a maelstrom. I surface under my upturned boat, disoriented. Swimming from beneath, I try to grab my boat, all I can only rest my hand atop and drift downstream. Attempts to flip it aright prove futile, as the bike strapped on top acts like ballast. I decide to swim. Cliffed out on the left, I make for the gravel bar, though it’s three times as far. As I have a paddle clutched in one hand, and the raft in the other, I can only kick. I kick until my legs burn, then kick some more, making little distance. I give up in frustration, and float past a fallen tree– a lethal sweeper. I realize that, had I not been kicking, I would have washed right into it. I start kicking again. The river washes me downstream faster than I could run. I kick desperately for the far bank. Then the river rounds a bend, and the opposite shore recedes; thirty, forty, fifty feet. My chest seizes with panic. Calm down, I tell myself. Breathe. I take a deep breath and choke. So much for breathing. I stop struggling and push the panic away, trying to assess the situation without air. Dad’s going for the left bank, as it’s a gravel bar now. I change directions, kicking back the other way, but now I’m in the middle of the the channel The river’s straining out. I should probably put my legs downstream of me to fend off– A large boulder catches me in the chest, and I lose my tenuous grip on the raft. My knees scrape rocks as I helplessly watch the cook pot and three thousand dollars of mountain bike drift out of reach. I give the raft up. I can touch bottom! I try to stand, but the current is far too strong. Instead I make for shore, using all remaining energy. Dad’s already got there, but after dragging his raft out, he collapses. I drift past him, a few feet from shore, right past an alder. A branch bobs in the current, and I grasp it. This is nice. I could just close my eyes and rest here in the current. Maybe take a little nap... A piece of Twain floats through my mind as I clutch the branch with one hand: “...drowned...naked, swollen, purple; [his hand] clasping the fragment of a broken bush...mute witness of the last despairing effort to save the life that was doomed beyond all help.” I drag myself half out of the river, and collapse on the bank. My dad comes over and helps me up. We embrace, glad to be alive and unhurt. We get out the maps and M&Ms, and sit down. We have seventy-five more miles to go, with one bike and one raft between the two of us. It’s going to be a long walk. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– I couldn't figure out how to get the tabs in there, so pardon my paragraph structure.
I'd just like to thank the following who helped me with this: That should be all for now. I revised it– it's better, shorter. I'll be sure to gloat or sob about which colleges may or may not let me study with them.
You liberal use of commas is telling. And using esoteric words in phrases like "My hubris replaced with the first tendrils of panic" doesn't help. Just try to be yourself because you sound VERY awkward. Did I mention it doesn't flow at all? Maybe it's the use of present tense?
I forgot to mention that I didn't actually post my revised bit. SouthStar, Yeah, I did pull that out. Too esoteric.
“...drowned...naked, swollen, purple; [his hand] clasping the fragment of a broken bush...mute witness of the last despairing effort to save the life that was doomed beyond all help.” I like how you threw the Twain line in there. The first dead body I saw was when I was rafting and it looked just like that. You describe the situation very well, and no, you do not need to put some stupid line at the end about "life being rough, but you're tough". I would have had the said the exact same thing as Southstar, but he beat me to it. Good job, and good luck getting in to college.Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
