Before starting on this last trip we had thought it would be only right to give our younger brother a ride in a rapid that would be sure to give him a good ducking, as his experience was going to be short.  But the water and the wind, especially in the shadows, was so very cold that we gave this plan up, and avoided the waves as much as possible.  He got a ducking this morning, however, in a place where we least expected it.  It was not a rapid, just smooth, very swift water, while close to the right shore there was one submerged rock with a foot of water shooting over it, in such a way that it made a “reverse whirl” as they are called in Alaska—­water rolling back upstream, and from all sides as well, to fill the vacuum just below the rock.  This one was about twelve feet across; the water disappeared as though it was being poured down a manhole.

The least care, or caution, would have taken me clear this place; but the smooth water was so deceptive, and was so much stronger than I had judged it to be, that I found myself caught sideways to the current, hemmed in with waves on all sides of the boat, knocked back and forth, and resisted in all my efforts to pull clear.  The boat was gradually filling with the splashing water.  Ernest was lying on the deck, hanging on like grim death, slipping off, first on one side, then on the other, and wondering what was going to happen.  So was I. To be held up in the middle of a swift stream was a new experience, and I was not proud of it.  The others passed as soon as they saw what had happened, and were waiting in an eddy below.  Perhaps we were there only one minute, but it seemed like five.  I helped Ernest into the cockpit.  About that time the boat filled with splashing water and sunk low, the stream poured over the rock and into the boat, and she upset instantly.

Ernest had on two life-preservers, and came up about thirty feet below, swimming very well considering that he was weighted with heavy clothes and high-topped shoes.  The boys pulled him in before he was carried against a threatening wall.  Meanwhile, I held to the boat, which was forced out as soon as she was overturned, and climbed on top, or rather on the bottom.  I was trying to make the best of things and was giving a cheer when some one said, “There goes your hatch cover and you’ve lost the motion-picture camera.”

Perhaps I had.  My cheering ceased.  The camera had been hurriedly shoved down in the hatch a few minutes before.

On being towed to shore, however, we found the camera had not fallen out.  It had been shoved to the side less than one inch, but that little bit had saved it.  It was filled with water, though, and all the pictures were on the unfinished roll in the camera, and were ruined.  We had been in the ice-cold water long enough to lose that glow which comes after a quick immersion and were chilled through; but what bothered me more than anything else was the fact that I had been caught in such a trap after successfully running the bad rapids above.  We made a short run after that so as to get out of sight of the deceptive place, then proceeded to dry out.  The ruined film came in handy for kindling our camp-fire.