September 2007 expedition, first descent of the upper Salween River in northeast Tibet. Riding with Brock Di Santi at a rapid that had a tremendous wave up front. The wave was a capricious obstacle breaking one way and the next, no rhythm to count out, just mayhem. Scouting the rapid, everyone else made their decisions ahead of time, planning which side of the wave to hit. Brock told me he'd make up his mind at the last second. For this reason I felt safest with him. He relied more on visceral intuition than brawn. As we set up and the current got hold of us Brock drove the raft right down the middle, by far the most dangerous run. Every raft before us had been thrown from the wave, guzzled down into the chaos that boiled to either side. Brock spun us backwards and worked the oars hard. "Hey diddle-diddle," Brock said. "Right down the middle. The wave rolled smooth as marble. We sailed over its explosive crest, an arrow shot through the center of an apple. Two seconds earlier we would have been flipped over. Two seconds later we would have been siphoned back into the wave that was violently collapsing behind us. As it was, hardly a spot of water touched my face.