Raging Rhodes Rivers, Another Cautionary Tale - by Paul Zille
The subsiding Tinternspruit in Rhodes below the bridge, 12-01-2011
No stay in Rhodes is complete without a visit to ‘the Waterfall’. Located on X’s farm just off the Naude’s Nek road about 7km out of town, the waterfall is a feature of everyone’s stay. Whether for those passing through or for longer term residents, a run, cycle, walk or leisurely drive there typically forms part of each day’s languid routine.
The waterfall’s attraction, beyond its beautiful setting, lies in the deep broad pool at its base. Around 4m x 6m in size, it is sustained through even prolonged dry spells by the Bell River’s strong flow. The north bank offers a ladder of rocky ledges up to around 5 m high, from which to jump or dive, thereafter to be gently swirled to the opposite rock face or carried downstream to the sand bar which restores the river to its natural, shallow course.
The Waterfall’s other feature is its safety. Perfectly contained, deep, the gentlest of currents and eddies to swim against, no sharp rocks, underwater ledges on both banks which offer footholds on which to pause between dives.
Be warned. As we discovered, this picture of calm placidity in which even the smallest child can safely cavort, transforms rapidly into a raging cauldron of vicious side eddies and down currents after heavy rain. We experienced this directly one evening before Christmas, with almost catastrophic results.
It had been raining intermittently for most of the previous night and morning. By late afternoon, as the clouds receded, the mid-summer heat reasserted itself, sparking calls for ‘the Waterfall’. The excitement of our visit was heightened by the shared sense of cabin fever born of the day spent indoors.
No sooner had I parked when the five kids – aged between 11 and 14 – sprinted down the path, accompanied by excited whoops and taunts at the prospect of diving contests into the full flow of the bloated river. I followed casually, taking in the spectacular contrasts of colour and light that caresses Rhodes in the late afternoon, particularly after rain.
My pastoral bliss was rudely broken halfway down by a sudden chorus of urgent screaming from the waterfall. I couldn’t make out any words but the terror and panic in these young voices was unmistakable and will stay with me forever. Instantly, I saw what was happening although the detail would only become clear once I arrived, breathless and terrified, on the raging bank.
Three boys were racing up and down the near bank wailing, craning their heads in a desperate effort to see where their two brothers, aged 11 and 13, had disappeared to. I recall fleetingly glimpsing, as I ran down the path, the head of one child being dumped up and down as he was sucked from the far bank to the near side of the waterfall and upstream. But then it disappeared behind the rocky ledge that forms the south bank.
Close-up, the volume of flow and the power of the water cascading through the bloated neck of the waterfall was terrifying. The water level was at least twice its normal level, and any number of new tributaries and side falls had been spawned across rocks where we normally spread our towels and bodies to dry.
The swimming bowl had been transformed into a boiling pot of muddy water – at once utterly beguiling and terrifying.
I did what instinct demanded and leapt, fully clothed and with my glasses on, into the boiling pot, as close to the torrent as i could. By the time I surfaced a few seconds later I had been swept 15 metres downstream – utterly helpless against the force of the flow. At this point it dawned on me with a chilling clarity I shall never forget, that if the boys were caught in an underwater vortex, there was absolutely nothing i would be able to do to help. They would surely drown – if they hadn’t drowned already.
With this screaming through my brain, I hauled myself up the opposite bank and scrambled back to the waterfall squinting as best i could without my glasses, desperate to glimpse a sign of human movement somewhere within the torrent. Nothing.
As I stumbled level with the waterfall I glimpsed, clinging to the opposite rockface chest deep under water, first one and then both boys. Separated by two metres, they had both been sucked under and swirled around by the current under the side overhang of the main waterfall. As they were swept around, heading back to the main waterfall – and who knows what then – their feet had somehow found the ledge and their fingers clawed into tiny crevices that miraculously presented themselves on the rock face.
Unable to move, and with the water swirling around them, they were trapped on a small ledge under a lip of the side waterfall, blurred by the torrent of water cascading a few inches in front of them. Screaming at the top of my voice to make myself heard above the roar of the river, I eventually managed to elicit a nod to indicate that they were ok. I ordered them to stay put, stay calm and to keep talking to one another – and NOT to think of launching themselves through the waterfall into the main flow in what would be a doomed effort to escape.
The draining relief I felt at their relative safety was instantly overtaken by an overwhelming sense of panic – how would they be rescued? The crisis was by no means over and the worst may have been yet to come. I needed adult help and instinctively knew that their rescue in some way hinged on ropes and tubes – although i had no idea how we would get these to them.
I raced to the car as fast as my adrenalin-depleted body would carry me, dug out the cell phone to call the boys’ father. No reception. I spun the car and raced across the field to the farm gate, at which point my manic prayers for some kind of intervention were answered in the form of a quad bike, with couple returning from a trip to Kloppershoek. I flagged them down and tried as best I could to articulate the situation clearly. ‘Please phone Roger Brown and ask him to bring his tubes and ropes!’ As they sped off I tried again to call Mark, the twins’ father. Miraculously, there was reception, it rang and he answered: ‘No panic, but we have a real emergency. Come quick with ropes and tubes. NOW’.
I raced back to the waterfall to find a tense but stable situation: my one son screaming across the river to the two trapped boys – assuring, encouraging, willing them to hold tight, stay calm, stay put. I scrambled on all fours across the cascades above the falls to the small island separating the main from the side falls and found a small foothold right between the main falls and the overhang under which the boys were trapped. I somehow bent myself double enough to glimpse my son, Julian and clinging to the rock face next to him, Max. Bellowing commands and assurances, I waited the eternity it took for Mark’s car to appear and three adults to coming scrambling down the path.
The rest of the rescue sequence followed an almost seamless course as we strung out the lengths of rope which, tied together, were long enough to be pulled downstream to the opposite bank. I secured two tubes – mercifully they were small enough to squeeze between the gap separating the waterfall from the rock overhang – and gingerly passed them down to dangle within arm’s length – just – of Julian. As I shouted instructions to pull the tubes over their heads and under their arms, I couldn’t help noticing the water level had risen. Both boys were shaking uncontrollably from cold – it must have been at least 45 minutes since they first went in – but they were able to nod and shout affirmations to my repeated instructions.
On the count of ‘three’ they both launched themselves forward through the waterfall, at the same time as the rope to which the tubes were attached was heaved downstream and across. They lurched forward, hesitated and then were pulled forward by the rope and, once they escaped the cauldron, by the current to the awaiting adults. Whoops of relief and elation, tears and hugs followed. They were safe. We had somehow rescued the situation.
At which point Roger and Jonathan Brown arrived with a bootful of tubes and ropes. How grateful we were to explain they weren’t needed.
An eerie, shocked silence settled on the group, interrupted by frantic rounds of questions and explanation, as each person involuntarily relived their experience, stitching together the different takes to form a half coherent picture of the shared nightmare which everyone knew to the marrow of their bones could so easily have resulted in disaster.
The extent of my trauma manifested in disturbed sleep for nights thereafter, as I bolted awake to vivid flashbacks followed by chilling ‘what-if’ thought sequences, finally culminating in a sense of deep gratitude – and a reminder of just how much pure luck plays in situations like these.
We returned the next day to a calmer river, determined to face our demons and conquer the fear. Even at the shallow sand bar 30 meters below the falls, the current was still strong enough and the water deep enough to make crossing hard work.
So, all’s well that ends well. But remember, as with the sea, rivers demand our respect – especially in the rainy season.