Run for cover
The blast of downwash is more than I expected. For a second I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold us upright. We’re pelted with pebbles. I hear them tink, tink against the motorcycle.
Less fortunate than us are three people who were fishing on the bank below without the benefit of helmets, gloves and armored jackets. They’re scrambling up the bank, clutching gear, as the helicopter lowers a basket into the same hole they had lines in a moment ago.
“That didn’t look very fun,” I say to the disheveled trio once the helicopter has departed with it’s basket of river water. They don’t say much.