A small boat would have
upset. On two occasions we were caught in small whirlpools, where a
point of rock projected from the shore, turning upstream, splitting a
swift current and making a very rapid and difficult whirl, where the
boats were nearly smashed against the walls. Below all such places
were the familiar boils, or fountains, or shoots, as they are
variously termed. These are the lower end of the whirlpools, emerging
often from the quiet water below a rapid with nearly as much violence
as they disappeared in the rapids above. These would often rise when
least expected, breaking under the boats, the swift upshoot of water
giving them such a rap that we sometimes thought we had struck a rock.
If one happened to be in the centre of a boil when it broke, it would
send them sailing down the stream many times faster than the regular
current was travelling, rowing the boat having about as little effect
on determining its course as if it was loaded on a flat-car. The other
boat, at times just a few feet away, might be caught in the whirlpools
that formed at the edge of the fountains, often opening up suddenly
under one side of the boat, causing it to dip until the water poured
over the edge, holding it to that one spot in spite of every effort to
row away.
Then we would strike peaceful water again, a mile or perhaps, so quiet
that a thin covering of clear water over the top of the silt-laden
pool beneath, reflecting the tinted walls and the turquoise sky
beneath its limpid surface.
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