On Saturday, April 20, 1974, two canoes, each with two men, ages 22 to 26, launched in the Sandy River in Farmington. The impulsive plan, conceived two nights earlier over pitchers of beer, involved paddling to Mercer, about 30 miles downstream.

A nearby U.S. Geological Survey gauging station reported that the Sandy’s flow that day was 3,650 cubic feet per second — about 12 times higher than its summer rate. The air was 60 degrees and the water was 38 degrees.

My brothers Robert and Don paddled one canoe. George Joseph (no relation to my family) and Rusty Cyr paddled the second. No one had whitewater experience, scouted the river or paddled the Sandy. Their sole wise choice was wearing personal floation devices, even though two were defective.

The first stretch of high water was smooth sailing. Amid shouts of joy, the canoeists were giddy. Their euphoria, though, was short-lived.

“Our canoes suddenly picked up speed,” recalled Don. “And the roar of the rapids was deafening.” 

“Eyeing the whitewater,” remembered George, “Rusty turned in the bow, grinned, and yelled, ‘Here we go!’ Within seconds our canoe was swamped.” 

Paddling their half-submerged canoe to shore proved impossible. “We nosedived into another hole and were dumped into the river,” George said. “Holding onto the gunwale, I yelled, ‘We should stay with the canoe.’ Rusty hollered, ‘I’m headed to shore.’”  

Fifty-two years later, the traumatic event remains seared in George’s memory. “When Rusty bailed out, I wasn’t sure if I’d see him again.” 

Following the lead canoe, Robert and Don watched in alarm as George and Rusty struggled to stay alive.

“Our canoe also filled with water,” said Don. “I jumped into the river because the canoe was so heavy it slammed into submerged boulders instead of gliding over them.” 

Holding onto a gunwale of the downriver side of a quartering canoe, Don let go, fearful of being crushed against a boulder.

“I tried swimming to shore,” he said, “but the current held me in the middle.”  

Hyperventilating in the icy water and losing sensation in his limbs, he was sucked underwater by a whirlpool.  “I was petrified fighting my way to the surface,” Don said.

Another powerful eddy pulled him under again. When he surfaced, George’s canoe — still upright and half-filled with water — was within reach. He gripped the gunwale with his elbows because his hands were unresponsive.

“George yelled at me to stay with him,” Don said. “But I let go, reasoning that my survival depended on reaching land.” 

The river carried him within a few feet of shore.

“Since my arms and hands wouldn’t function,” he said, “I tried biting branches raking my face. Holding a branch with my teeth, I thought, might swing him to shore. But the effort failed.”

The river spit him out on a sandbar.

George had been in the river for 25 to 30 minutes — the upper limits of survival in 38-degree water.

“I was struggling to think clearly,” he said. “When the canoe and I went under, I surfaced without my eyeglasses.”

Somehow he also found himself on shore.  

Shivering uncontrollably and incoherent, Don was mysteriously shirtless.

“I don’t remember landing on the sandbar,” he said, “but I remember the sun’s warmth. It felt heavenly.” Hours later he learned that hypothermia impairs brain function. “While somersaulting underwater I told myself, ‘Hold it together. I’ve got a date tonight with a beautiful Colby College coed.’” 

Rusty reached shore minutes after separating from George. Robert beached his damaged canoe 15 to 20 minutes after launching. Confirming that Rusty was safe, Robert jogged through corn snow in search of Don and George. After what seemed an eternity, he found George, shivering and confused.

“Since I couldn’t see my brother,” Robert said, “I kept yelling, ‘George, have you seen Donnie?’ George mumbled, ‘He’s right here.’”

Don was prostrate, hidden behind a stack of gnarled driftwood. 

“Since both were in really rough shape,” said Robert, “I forced them to help me drag my canoe up the steep riverbank, hoping that physical exertion would generate core body heat.” They dragged the canoe to a hayfield. 

All four hiked out to Route 2, then hitchhiked to where the canoes had been launched and Robert’s truck was parked. 

A month later, Tim Ladd, piloting a Cessna with Robert as a passenger, flew above the Sandy River in search of George’s aluminum canoe. It was wrecked, shaped like a giant U-bolt around a midriver boulder.

Years later, as a high school English teacher, Don used the harrowing experience to teach students the importance of planning.

“We hadn’t done our homework, such as scout the river from shore,” he told his students. “Preparation is the key to success.” 

“Most young people think they’re invincible,” he said decades later. “I felt that way in my 20s. The four of us never considered the risks.”

Nearly every April 20, the canoeists, now in their 70s, phone each other.

“We’re bonded by the near-fatal experience,” Don said. “It was as if the Grim Reaper stared in our eyes that day, waved a finger, and said, ‘On second thought, I’m not yet ready to claim you.’”  

Ron Joseph of Sidney is author of Bald Eagles, Bear Cubs, and Hermit Bill: Memories of a Maine Wildlife Biologist, published by Islandport Press