A Series of Small Maneuvers by Eliot Treichel

Treichel (Close Is Fine) switches between Emma's past and present, recounting her memories of an emotional and contradictory father on the verge of divorce, her time on the river, and her difficult readjustment to school and friends, all while focusing on language that underlines the beauty of the natural world instilled in Emma by her father ('The early morning light was the color of ripe peaches'). But even at home with her grieving mother and younger sister, Emma cannot find peace after an incident she takes responsibility for ('Please don't ever tell me that accidents just happen'), no matter what her family and the police say. 'About this title' may belong to another edition of this title.After her father's death, stemming from an accident while exploring the remote Rio Tinto in New Mexico, 15-year-old Emma Wilson travels alone through rapids and dangerous temperatures to safety. It was just a series of small maneuvers that would add up to something larger. He would’ve turned the big rapid into something doable, something orderly and reasonable. Yes, because he would’ve taken the time to show me the line again, tracing it down through the wave train and past the hole, picking out our markers so we wouldn’t get lost once we were in it. Other times―most times now―I see that I would’ve said yes.

Sometimes when I think about it, I imagine that I probably would’ve said portage, or that I would’ve wanted to take the sneak route―options, as it turns out, that don’t work so well in real life. Sometimes I’m not sure what I would’ve said to my dad. And having survived it as a team, it was supposed to translate into something else―some deeper trust and closeness between us, or some confidence and wisdom and test-taking finesse that I was supposed to be able to use to dominate life in high school. Upset was supposed to have been the grand finale of the trip, the hardest rapid we’d run together. My dad would’ve given me the same option about portaging, although it likely would’ve come with a catch, like some cranky comment later in the day, or some glint of disappointment in his eyes that I wasn’t supposed to see.

You and I can walk down to the bottom and meet them if you want,” Alex said. “I just keep getting this feeling,” I said. The plunging, the getting held under, the being unable to breathe. The boat dropping into the hole, then flipping over quick as a blink. I could see waves breaking into the boat, could feel the panicked strokes that had no effect. I kept picturing myself alone in the canoe, swept into the rapid, out of control.

A Series of Small Maneuvers by Eliot Treichel