My name is Chuangtan — Rapids-Runner — and I run rafts. Timber from the hills gets lashed into rafts and poled down the ravine to the lowlands. A man stands on the raft with one long pole; in the rough water the pole must strike true and the hand must hold — the raft knows no one, and neither does the water.
This year the water's gone strange. Storm after storm, the ravine rises without warning, and even the sound of the rise is different — muffled, like something turning over underneath. Twenty years on the raft, and this is the first time I've grounded my own rafts for three months. Not from fear of dying. If a raft breaks up, the timber goes through the downstream villages — that's the sin.
Crossing the shallows? Read the water first. Murky — wait two days. Foaming — wait two more. The raftsmen's saying: better the timber waits three days than a man touches the water for one hour. Remember it.