If you’re reading this, chances are you already understand that jet boating is all about the experience, that it has nothing whatsoever to do with transportation. For some it’s about the ride, hitting the big rollers, gunning it into a chute. For some it’s the camaraderie, family, fishing, the packing up, the anticipation, the teamwork. For others it’s all about skill, finessing the wheel (or stick) and goosing the jet at just the right moment. For me, though, it’s about all of it. Every time I climb into a jet boat I’m hoping for something new, something that’s more real and intense and urgent than anything I encounter off the river. And I’m rarely disappointed.
Which is precisely why I responded to a posting in May 2006 on the River Jet Forum from someone with the handle of “Swampswimmingshrek,” who like everyone else in on that thread was getting ready for the Payette River run. Something in me clicked, a little voice that said anyone who could even think up a name like Swampswimmingshrek had something to offer. So I asked if he had room for a rider, and in response I received this telling message: “You bet! You’re a brave man! This will be the boat’s first white water ever. And before you jump in, I better remind you what you’re gettin’ into here. Oh, bring a good life jacket – this is an open bow with no top. No lexan windows and no high deck. And only one bilge pump.”
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to scare me away or jack me up for the trip, but – call me crazy – my response was definitely the latter. My heartfelt answer to Swampswimmingshrek was this: “Perfect!”
Turns out Mr. Swampswimmingshrek was a man of whom I was well aware, and for whom I had great respect, even if he hadn’t run the Payette before in this or any other boat. His name is Bryce Roberts, an active poster on jet boating forums. In reading his posts I’d pictured him as a grumpy old fellow hunched over a computer trying to stir things up, but man, was I ever wrong about that. Turns out Bryce is in his early 20s, the son of a long-time jet boat vet in the Western White Water Association, a kid who had grown up on the water and never left. In the past we had swapped contrary opinions on the forums, sometimes we still do, but I knew he was a true jet boater, an advocate for the sport and for the people who love it.
It was on.
I left my Bellevue home on May 22nd for the 3.5 hour drive to the Payette River for a launch scheduled at six o’clock that evening above Horseshoe Bend. Most of the online posters who had said they’d show up didn’t – the only other boat belonged to Bruce Burup, from Fruitland, Idaho, who had one rider. Bruce had run the river before – in fact, I’d ridden in his aptly named mighty Duck “Hell Yes” on the Payette the week before – and I had to admit that I took some comfort in knowing that he’d be nearby.
Little did I know I’d need all the comfort I could find.
Bryce and his 18-foot Alumiweld with a 302 and a Hamilton 772 two stage pump were waiting for me. So was his dog, a 100 pound Lab named – you guessed it – Shrek. We exchanged the obligatory pleasantries, loaded up, and when Bruce’s boat was ready we took to the water.
Despite Bruce’s experience on the Payette, Bryce wasn’t the type to play follow the leader, so he quickly assumed the front position as we headed upriver. He drove with one knee on his seat, still standing to see over the windshield and survey the water ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other firmly on the throttle. It was a reassuring pose, the confidence of a tested pro, so I took out my video camera and began to document what would prove to be an experience indeed.
It didn’t take long. The first rapid was Harvey’s, which we slowly approached from the left side of the wave train. We hovered a moment, Bryce checking out his options before letting the boat slide back a bit. Then he hit the power and we plowed into the wave train, climbing one roller, than another, the water splashing over me. When Bryce had done enough testing of his boat in this wave train he moved to the right side, gently sliding up the right side until he could go no further, as the calm water was pinched out between the wave train and the high rocks on the bank. Bryce then put us in reverse and backed down the side of the rapid, then again cut to the left. It was there he found his spot and gunned the Alumiweld up onto a plane to the left of the wave train, shooting right between a marking rock at the top left of the rapid and the large rollers in the center. A sweet move, and I loved every moment of it.
Bryce was good. He didn’t rush things like many of the drivers I’d ridden with; he remained calm and calculating, and not overly aggressive considering his youth and, I have to add, his strong opinions on things. His boat was underpowered and the open bow presented unique risks, but he’d driven that first rapid like he’d grown up here, and he continued to read the water like a pro for the next twelve miles of the trip, up to Landside Rapid. And that’s where things got interesting.
As we rode toward Landside, I remembered several of Swampswimmingshrek’s posts on the River Jet Forum. Bryce had wanted to know why more boats didn’t run the left side (with the railroad tracks on the bank). A few of the smaller boats had done it, but not many. Most chose the highway side to the right of the rapid, where despite the larger waves there was more room and fewer rock hazards. And while I would now agree with Bryce’s opinion that the left side is the better choice for smaller boats – because of the smaller waves– today would prove to an exception to that rule.
I have to admit, I didn’t think Bryce would try to take on Landside in this boat. But I secretly hoped that he would; after all, I’d signed on for an experience, and we were approaching a whopper of an experience as we neared Landside. We hadn’t said all that much since launching, so he’d not mentioned the plan, and I hadn’t asked. And now, knowing what happened, I’m not sure I’d have wanted to know.
We approached the Landside rapid slowly toward the center of the water. Bryce worked the boat carefully to the top of the rapid, finding and skirting the big waves and rocks. Then he suddenly stopped, holding the boat in one of the eddies formed from the big pour over the rocks, carefully inspecting the water in front of him. There were rocks behind and to the left, and I was concerned that if he decided to turn us around we’d be in trouble. I glanced to the right, the traditional route for more powerful boats, and thought no way, not in this little 18-footer. If he caught one of the big waves with the bow we were history. Then, ever the pro, Bryce asked me what I thought about the slot between the large boulders on the rail side – the left side – of the river. I told him it looked doable. Those were the last words we spoke before, as we would describe it later, all holy hell broke loose.
Bryce backed us down a bit before starting on the power run. He didn’t bring us completely to plane, since – as he told me later – he didn’t want to catch the bow on a big wave. We moved into the slot and he hit the power once the bow was on the wave. We started to climb and he cranked it, and just when I thought we were going to make it, I heard “The Sound.” Yes, that dreaded sound every experienced jet boater knows – cavitation. The jet was out of the water only for a split second but it was too long. Without enough upward momentum the river grabbed hold and pushed the Alumiweld squarely onto the big rock on our left.
And there we sat, not quite high and dry, but unable to move.
My first thought was self-preservation, as I thought I was on the wrong side should the boat capsize. When I moved the boat rocked and I found myself sitting on the engine cover. We were positioned horizontally across the upstream side of the rock. I stood carefully as Bryce began yelling instructions to me, the roar of the water making it almost impossible to hear even with our close proximity. He told me to move from one side to the other with the goal of rocking the boat from its perch. A good idea, but it didn’t work.
Jet boating 101: when the pump is out the water, the engine overheats fast. Bryce knew this, so he shut it down, after which we both began rocking the boat in an effort to get it to slide back into the water. After about twenty minutes of this I could feel the current beginning to push on the front of the boat, and then it began to slide. Bryce jumped back to the helm and fired it up, and thankfully the engine responded. But it didn’t happen quickly enough, and suddenly the rear of the boat was perched high on the rock with the bow pointed into the water, and the water was rushing in.
All that was left at this point was to start bailing. While I used a bucket, Bryce had the presence of mind to unbolt the bilge pump and bring it forward, rewiring it to the fish finder. Unbeknownst to us, a crowd had gathered on the bank to enjoy the show. Among the lookers were police officers and municipal rescue vehicles, along with two friends of ours – Jamie Hastings and his friend “Sturgeon King” Adam – who had been videotaping the whole charade. (I’m surprised it hasn’t ended up on Youtube yet, but who knows, it just might.) According to them I looked pretty angry, probably because I wasn’t all that excited about dragging the authorities away from dinner to witness our ineptitude, though I did appreciate it. But it wasn’t really anger, it was that I felt useless and a little stupid just standing there in this stranded boat. Not my finest hour.
Meanwhile, back in the other boat, Bruce had been watching the whole scene unfold. He’d remained downstream in case either of us went overboard, and at one point he’d attempted to come alongside to help, but wisely heeded our warning – there wasn’t room and there were plenty of other rocks -- and backed off. After he went downstream we began to use hand signals to both him and Jamie on shore to communicate our next big idea: if Bruce would pick up Jamie and Adam and take then across to the rail side, near where we were stranded, they could walk upstream to a point where we could throw them some ropes and secure the boat and possibly create a way to get ashore. This exchange of information took a long time to accomplish, with yelling nearly impossible because of the water and our hand signals woefully inadequate. But somehow we all got on the same page, the ropes were thrown and secured, and the scene was set for our dramatic rescue.
First off was Shrek, Bryce’s dog. We strapped some life preservers to his torso and affixed them to a rope held by the men on shore, and then Bryce tossed Shrek as far as possible from the boat. In seconds the dog was hauled out, and you would swear that Shrek seemed eager to do it all over again. Not so the two men in the boat.
Bryce went next, using a rope tied from the back of the boat to the shore. It was strung high and tight, giving him a solid hand-hold against the current and slippery rocks on the bottom. He actually made it look easy, though when he was safely on shore the boat – with me still in it – suddenly became very unstable. In fact it was threatening to break free, so I untied the rope from the back and affixed it to the front to prevent that from happening. This move, though, made the rope low and slack as it extended toward shore, meaning my little journey would have a different outcome.
It was late, and the cold was setting in. I’d been on countless rivers and felt the cold of the water many times, but never had anything felt as frigid as the Payette did on that day. I dropped in, but immediately knew the current was too strong against this slack rope, which would rip from my hands at any moment. The best move was to let go, which is what I did, using my feet to cushion the impact of the rocks that resided in my path as I went screaming downstream. It took about thirty yards before I was close enough to shore to grab the hand of Bruce’s boat mate, Eric, who pulled me to shore and quickly got me into a dry sweatshirt.
Those who saw it said, given the happy outcome, that it was a hilarious thing to behold. I, however, have yet to see the humor.
By the time we’d hiked downriver to Bruce’s boat, a rescue team had arrived, full of questions I was in no mood to answer. It was late, it was getting dark, and everybody on the scene just wanted to get off the river and warm up. We’d roped Bryce’s boat in place as best we could, but there was nothing we could do for her now.
As it turned out, the boat did break free of the rock at some point after our departure, but the ropes held it fast for an easy recovery the next day. She was upside down, the windshield ripped away and significant damage to the hull. Bryce still owns that boat to this day. He rebuilt it and gave it an appropriate name: Resurrection.
I’d sought an experience, and it just goes to prove that you should be careful what you wish for. I actually have no regrets, nor does Bryce. We took a chance and then accepted the failure without looking back. No one every really tames the river, we are merely afforded the opportunity to go along for the ride on occasion. The thrill of the sport is in not knowing which outcome is in store, and the satisfaction comes from knowing that the river gives you nothing, you have to summon all your skill, courage and patience to stay dry and experience the full glory of the ride.
As for Bryce, he handled it like the professional he is. Whether it’s running the rivers or advocating for boater access, Bryce Roberts is, and always has been, a boater’s boater.
The video of this incident as filmed from inside the boat up to getting stuck on the rock is online in the subscribers area of the jetboaterjournals.com web site. q
