I have never understood the mathematics of fluid motion, but in two minutes I learned more about the raw power of 20,000 cubic feet per second than in a lifetime of scholarship. Wrenching my face skyward to breathe through the spume, I swung my legs downstream to avoid crushing my head on solid granite. For 500 yards, the surging current bumped me painfully over extruding rocks.
Ahead lay horror. Surging over a cap of boulders, the Espolón took an abrupt turn, forming swirling pools that culminated in a churning, vertical circle of water known as a hydraulic. Getting caught in one can be fatal: It traps the swimmer in an endless series of underwater spins. Experts advise bundling up the body to reduce its surface area, but the outcome is largely dictated by the water.
Interminable seconds passed. I tried to stifle my panic as I went under, holding on desperately to the air in my lungs. At last, my life vest kicked into play and I surged back to the surface, spluttering and shaken. I clambered slowly onto the bank, trembling with cold and fear, before a surge of relief took hold and I broke into a fatuous grin.
COLIN BARRACLOUGH
A forced photo op
Road tripping through Israel, my family took a wrong turn in the Golan Heights, the strategically-vital sliver of land that borders Syria. Without room to reverse course, we climbed a switchback. To our surprise, we arrived at the gate of an Israeli military installation.
Two soldiers with M16 rifles slung over their shoulders approached our minivan. One short and heavyset, one brazenly flirtatious, they presented more of a comedic, than fearsome front. My mother explained the situation. The fast-paced, Hebrew conversation punctuated with hand gestures bounced between argument and negotiation.
The soldiers began pointing toward my sister and me. There was agreement. The gate opened. We drove through, turned around, and stopped. My mother explained: The soldiers wanted pictures with my sister and me.
