The River by Gary Paulsen

to a narrower width, deeper, and at the same time aimed it through some boulders that had split off either side and dropped in the middle.
    All of this had the effect of making a monstrous chute where the water fought and roared to get through, smashing around the rocks in huge sprays of white water.
    And the raft was aimed right down the middle of the chute.
    Things happened so fast after that, there was not a way he could prepare for it.
    The raft seemed to come alive, turn into a wild, crazy animal.
    The front end took the river, swung down and into the current, grabbed the madness of the water and ran with it.
    Brian had just time to look down at Derek, just time to see that he was still tied to the raft securely, and they were into it.
    The raft bucked and tore at the water, slammed sideways. Brian tried to steer, using the paddle to swing the stern to the left and right, trying to avoid the boulders, but it was no use.
    The water owned the raft, owned Derek, owned him. In the roaring, piling thunder of the river he had no control.
    They were flying, the logs of the raft rearing out of the water on pressure ridges, slamming back down so hard it rattled his teeth.
    In the middle of the chute was a boulder—huge, gray, wet with waves and spray—and the raft aimed directly at the center of it.
    He had time to scream—sound lost in the roar of water—and throw himself on Derek. The raft wheeled slightly to the left and struck the boulder.
    Brian thought for part of a second that they had made it.
    Derek’s body lurched beneath him and dropped back, the raft took the blow, flexed, gave, but held together; and Brian started one clear thought: we made it.
    Then it hit. There was an underwater boulder next to the giant in the middle of the river. Hidden by a pressure wave, it lay sideways out and to the left, halfway to the left wall.
    The nose of the raft made it, carried over by the pressure ridge, hung for a second, then dropped, plummeted down.
    As it tipped forward the rear of the raft cut down into the water and came against the submerged ledge.
    “Whunk!”
    Brian heard it hit, felt the impact and the sound through his whole body. He grabbed, tried to hold on to the logs beneath Derek, but it was no use.
    The stern kicked off the ledge, slapped him up and away, clear of the raft, completely in the air.
    He hung for a split instant in midair, looking down on the raft, on Derek—then he plunged down, down into the boiling, ripping water.
    Everything was madness—frothy green bubbles, hissing, roiling water.
    He came up for a moment, saw the raft shooting away downstream carrying Derek, then he was down again, mashed down and tumbled by the pressure wave, smashed into the rocks on the bottom, and all he could think was that he had to stay alive, had to get up, get air, get back to the raft.
    But the wave was a great weight on him, a house on him; the world was on him and he could not move up against it.
    He fought and clawed against the rock, broke his face free, then was driven down again, hammered into the bottom.
    Sideways.
    He’d have to work sideways. Smashed, buffeted, he dragged himself to the side beneath the pressure wave.
    It became stronger. He could not rise, could not get air, and his lungs seemed about to burst, demanded that he breathe, even if it was water. He willed the urge away, down, but it grew worse, and just when he knew it was over, when he would have to let the water in—when he would die—just then he made the edge of the pressure wave at the side of the boulder.
    The current roared past the rock and took him like a chip, sucking him downstream.
    He brought his head clear for one tearing breath, opened and shook water out of his eyes long enough to see that the raft was gone, out of sight—then he was driven back under, down to the bottom, smashing into boulders in a roaring green thunder, end over end until he knew nothing but the screaming need to breathe, to live, and then his head