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< July / August 2000
	Features
There is no I in team U.S. Men learn meaning of teamwork at World Rafting Championships Eugene Buchanan

It's a far cry from Li'l Bo Peep. In the first place, U.S. Rafting team member Kevin Michelson isn't tending the flock of sheep. He's chasing it. Secondly, he's not wearing a cute little sheepherder's outfit. He's naked to the bone, save for a U.S. Rafting Team bib covering an overly hairy torso.

Despite the cheering of his fellow teammates, he has no prayer of catching his quarry—and no one quite knows what would happen if he did. The sheep outsmart him at every turn and easily out-distance him in the straight-aways. It's a clear case of an individual vs. a flock, and an apt analogy to the plight of the U.S. rafting team.

They are here, in a field next to Chile's Futaleufu River, to compete in the World Rafting Championships and Camel Whitewater Challenge, an event pitting them against well-practiced teams from 14 countries. But even with a stacked deck—including four former and current members of the U.S. National slalom team—they've had a dismal showing, finishing seventh, eighth and twelfth in the first three events. Unlike the sheep—and Europeans—they have yet to work as a team. "It's a simple case of too many chiefs," says team captain John Rice, watching Kevin skip naked through the field. "We have a lot of good individual talent, but it's hard to turn that into team talent."

Kevin's sheep-chasing antics do wonders to rectify this. For perhaps the first time in their week-long stay, the U.S. team looks relaxed. More importantly, they're having fun. When they all strip down to their bibs moments later for a naked team photo shoot, I realize the tide may soon be about to turn.

Located at Latitude 43 in the Southern Hemisphere, the Futaleufu is as remote as its name. It took producer and cameraman Cliff Webb six connecting flights—from Saipan to Guam to Hong Kong to London to Miami to Santiago to Puerto Montt—just to join us for the final leg to the Dr. Seuss-like town of Futaleufu, deep in the Chilean Andes. If our logistics were tough, they were worse for event organizers, who had to get more than 300 people—including 18 men's and women's teams, journalists, event coordinators and production staff—to one of the most out-of-the-way regions in Chile. Helicopters were rented for $12,000 a day for safety and filming. Caterers and thousands of pounds of food had to be trucked in 150 miles. A DJ, disco ball and sound system were flown in from South Africa. Team vans had to be rented 1,000 miles away in Santiago (the South Africans wrecked theirs the first day).

The hassles were worth it. As local kayak outfitter Chris Spelius puts it, "the Futaleufu has the best whitewater on earth," including nearly 20 miles of big water—heart-stopping Class IV-V, all of it as aquamarine as model Camilla Vest's eyes. A map of the section shows Class IV-V rapids stacked upon each other like so many bales of hay, with barely enough room to list their names—exactly what event organizer Tony Hansen wanted. "These are the best rafters in the world," he said. "We want to test them on the world's best whitewater." So far, Hansen had done just that, organizing three events on Africa's Zambezi, one on Costa Rica's Reventazon, and one on South Africa's Orange River. Now he was bringing the show to the Futaleufu.

While the river's whitewater is good for competition, it's also good for TV. Last year's half-hour show ran in 175 different countries, including stints on Fox and Outdoor Life Network in the U.S. "People like seeing this type of rafting," said Webb as we spiraled down to the town's lone airstrip. "And it helps that it's always in an exotic location. The shots are always spectacular."

Parked next to a burro covered by a multi-colored blanket, a taxi took us to the race headquarters at the Hosteria Rio Grande, the main, and only, hotel downtown. Taped to the front window was a street map listing team accommodations. Russia: three blocks away at Los Troncos; Czech Republic, two blocks away at Ely B. I'd be staying across the street with the U.S. and Costa Rica teams. Notes from competitors covered the adjacent window. "Lost: black Helly Hansen jacket. Contact the Slovenians." It was an international pot pouri, illustrated by the hacky sack game out in the street, which showcased languages as varied as the area's topography.

The first war story from the river surfaced quickly. In the lobby, a multi-lingual group listened to South Africa's Steve Fisher—a bronze medalist two months earlier at the World Rodeo Championships—relay a story about a Russian kayaker who swam in a rapid called Tiburon. "When he finally came to the surface," he said, "he was bleeding out of both ears. And that was just a nothing rapid." Tony had done his homework in selecting this site for the World Championships.

My roommate, Rafael Gallo, was here as coach of the men and women's teams from Costa Rica. To get here, his teams beat seven others in last fall's Continental Championships. But as a veteran of the Futaleufu, he realizes that once on the water, there's not much he can do. "I keep the beer cold at the take-out, and the coffee warm at the put-in," he said, settling into a makeshift cot.

The next morning, I piled into a bus with 20 journalists from as far away as Russia and Japan for the 45-minute drive to the put-in. In keeping with typical shuttles of the region, a team bus broke down along the way, and I soon found myself sharing a seat with a member from Team Canada. His T-shirt read: "Raft guides are like prostitutes...first for fun, then for friends, and in the end only for money." It hit me then that these were the world's best. Whether they were guides or members of competitive rafting clubs, they were all athletes with one thing in common: the desire to take home bragging rights as the world's best rafting team.

At the put-in, I borrowed a kayak from Bio Bio Expeditions co-owner Marc Goddard and tried to catch up with the U.S. team, making its way to the start of the day's Time Trials. It didn't take long to realize the event's caliber. While it's usually no problem to keep up with a raft, the U.S. team quickly disappeared from view.

Still, the Americans paled to the Europeans, as evidenced by the day's outcome, with five-time champion Slovenia taking first to the U.S.'s seventh. Since it didn't count in the standings, the U.S. shook it off to working the rust out. And placing seventh meant a bye in the first round of the next day's sprint. The U.S. women, who had paddled together for years, fared better, barely nudging out New Zealand.

Results were put aside that evening at the welcoming party in the town gymnasium. After speeches by organizers and sponsors, and a long-winded oratory by the provincial governor, everyone—save for the Russians and Slovenians—put the Disco Ball That Crossed the Atlantic to use by raging on the dance floor. When the music died down, they returned to their seats to watch the day's highlights. If you didn't know who was sponsoring the event before, you did after the video, with Camel getting more impressions than Nike at the Super Bowl. Most agree it's an odd sponsor for an event where it behooves people to hold their breath. "It definitely seems weird," said U.S. team member Corey Nielsen, twirling one of the table's cigarette packs in his hands. "But without them everyone wouldn't have the chance to compete together."

While Camel's pockets may be deep enough to pull such an event off, its affiliation limits suitable locations. "We could never do a Camel event in Australia, or the U.S. for that matter," said event organizer Mark Joffe. "None of the networks would touch it." By now, the U.S. women's table joined the conversation. "Camel's gotten the ball rolling," chimed in captain Beth Rypins. "Maybe I'm selling out, but adventure sports are sexy right now, and a lot of events have these types of sponsors. Hell, our team is sponsored by Potlatch, an Idaho timber company."

Fueled by Chilean wine, talk then turned to raft racing, and its status in the U.S. "People don't give credence as to how difficult it is," continued Rypins. "There's this stigma that rafting is something dweebs do, a way to bumble your way downriver, where in Europe it's a developed sport. But I think momentum for it is building—especially with prize money involved. The possibility of competing at an international level is a big carrot." That, of course, is exactly what helped the U.S. men's team stack its deck. The trip was more or less free. But a stacked deck doesn't guarantee success. "This is the first time the U.S. men's team has had actual racers as opposed to guides," said Rypins. "Once they figure out how to work together, it'll show."

Back at the hacienda, I walked into Corey and Kevin's room, where the rest of the team was eating sunflower seeds and watching them play cribbage. Over a late night beer, I got to better know my American comrades. John Rice, Ryan McGrath, Shane Sigle and Kelly Starrett used to guide together for John's Clear Creek Rafting and compete in local races. After earning a dive scholarship to the University of Hawaii, Ryan raced outrigger canoes, finishing as high as 16th in the Molokai crossing. Shane and Kelly made the U.S. team in C-2. The foursome then hired firepower in the form of three-year C-1 U.S. team member Kevin and K-1 U.S. team member Corey. Having never paddled together, they won last fall's U.S. Nationals to earn a trip to the Futaleufu. They didn't regroup or train until they arrived in Chile. In contrast, the same Russian team has been together four years, training for two hours in a St. Petersburg swimming pool every morning for three months before leaving for the Championships.

What the U.S. lacked in team experience, they easily made up for in spirit. This showed itself the next morning in their rally cheer. "What do you call a dog when he's dirty?" ringleader Kelly shouted, everyone huddled in a circle. "Dirty, Dirty, Dirty Dog!" they all yelled back. Though none of the non-English speaking teams could understand them it set the tone. Unfortunately, the cheer didn't work. At the end of the day's sprint event, the U.S. sat in eighth place, victim to an inopportune flip at a hole called Mundaca. Considering these were the world's best rafters, the day was a carnage-fest, with five rafts flipping in

the first heat alone. But the teams that worked as a team had the best showing, with Russia taking first over Slovenia. The U.S. men learned a lesson from the women, who defeated New Zealand to take the leader's jersey.

Russian captain Petrov Sergei, in accepting their award that evening, gave the DJ a tape to play, saying, "In Russia we have two types of songs: sad and very sad. We won today, so we would like to play the sad song." Soon a soprano's melancholy echoed off the gymnasium's steel girders. The U.S. team was equally remorse back in the hotel. Apart from the Time Trials, it was their first taste of what they were up against. Kelly summed up their mood by playing the Futaleufu Blues on a guitar he purchased in town. If the Russians could play a sad song after they won, he could do so for a middle-of-the-pack showing.

Spirits were higher the next morning around the breakfast table, with friendly shit-giving easing the tension of their performance. Barbs were hurled about Ryan looking like Greg Brady; about Kelly dying his hair blonde; about Kevin becoming a "rafter" and cruising Aspen in a black Golf dubbed the Batmobile; about Corey being a slalom-head; and about John for always ruddering instead of paddling. They weren't family yet, but they were getting close.

Shit-giving, however, still didn't spell success in the day's slalom event. The first to suffer were the women, who clipped the last downstream gate, landed low in a crucial eddy, and finished dead last behind Slovakia, New Zealand and Costa Rica. The men didn't fare much better, also struggling at Gate #7 en route to a 12th-place showing out of a possible 14—third to last, the worse showing by a U.S. team yet. Most of the stoic Euro teams, meanwhile, ran the course perfectly, hitting each upstream high and each downstream dead center. The camaraderie showed in the results, with the Czech Republic taking first, followed by Slovakia, and Russia.

Taking off the river late, I was treated to an international shuttle home, first in the back of a truck with the Slovakian women, then in a pick-up driven by Chilean police, then in a van with the South African team, and finally crammed into the back of a van with the Russians. Back home, I found John and Ryan alone in their room playing cribbage and discussing whether John's head made it through the last gate. Kevin and Corey, meanwhile, had already grabbed their raceboats for interval training on a nearby lake.

Since tomorrow was the kayak downriver race, meaning none of the rafters had to paddle, that night's award ceremonies was an unofficial party night—especially for underdog teams like Japan, Mexico, Costa Rica and Canada, all of whom bested the U.S. in slalom. At the height of the celebrations, 100 decibels of Gregorian chants blasted over the speakers, signaling the start of the day's highlights. As if on cue, locals from the otherwise sleepy town filled the auditorium seats to catch the action. Before things got out of hand, Corey slipped out for a solid night's rest. He had a good chance at winning the kayak downriver event. But to do so, he would have to beat South Africa's Steve Fisher.

The shit-giving continued the next morning, most of it centered on Kelly's late-night bedroom appearance with a certain member of the U.S. women's team. Teamwork was starting to show off the river as well. Whoever brought someone home had the benefit of a pre-arranged system for securing an empty room. A simple nudge and the third wheel would slumber off to a pre-assigned empty bed in another room. The harassment continued at the put-in. "I think there's something going around," said a member of the U.S. women's team. "I think it's Kelly." Something more serious was going around, however, as food poisoning forced women's kayaker Brooke Winger to have an IV breakfast just hours before the Class IV-V kayak downriver race. Wearing the IV's Band-Aid on her forearm all the way to the finish line, she would eventually settle for third.

While John and Ryan scrambled into kayaks, Kevin and Shane broke out their seldom-seen C-1s, everyone eager to take a break from leg-chafing rubber. Opening the truck door to retrieve my own gear, I interrupted Corey, who was putting on his game face for the race. He kept it on until the bitter end, when after 38 minutes of Class IV-V windmilling, only 1.03 seconds separated him from Fisher in first. Although it posted little consolation, at least he got to see Fisher puke as he crossed the finish line. "He's a great paddler," Corey confessed afterward. "I just couldn't catch him."

Walking dejectedly back to the road, Kevin Michelson scrambles to find his shorts before a passing car sends a spray of dust into the Chilean air. When the coast is clear, everyone hurries out into the field again, taking off their clothes sans bib to pose for an unofficial team photo. Privates are strategically but casually hidden. An inadvertent elbow. A thigh here. Two cupped hands there. It seems sophomoric, but it's a jelling point for the U.S. team. On the ride back to town, they laugh, share sheep jokes and harass Kelly for chasing a ewe of a different color the night before. After a week of traveling, living, training and racing, they are becoming a flock. Though out of the hunt for first place, they still have a chance for redemption: a strong finish in the next day's downriver race, worth 40 percent of their overall score.

The next morning, the U.S. men get their battle juices flowing with the umpteenth playing of Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" during shuttle. It's the only tape they have. At the put-in, a quick "Dirty Dog" cheer gets them to the start, where the race will be run in three five-boat heats, each starting a minute apart. Even with Corey and Kevin switching sides in the middle of the race—a move that leaves the Italians dumbfounded—the U.S. quickly outdistance their heat. They even pass a raft from the first heat right before Class V Casa de Piedra. The "too many chiefs" syndrome has vanished, each piston content to do his job. They paddle to their strongest showing yet, taking third behind Russia and Germany and moving them into sixth place overall—the highest placing among all non-Euro teams. The women have an equally strong showing, taking the lead and then losing it four times before finally falling to New Zealand.

On the way home I cram myself in the back of the shuttle truck next to Corey and Kevin. Between potholes, I ask them for their take on being members of the U.S. rafting team. "I didn't know what I was getting into," says Kevin. "Part of the difficulty was trusting each other. There were times when you wanted to take control, but you can't. A quiet raft is an efficient raft, and we weren't quiet all the time. The best thing for me to do was just stroke when Shane stroked."

Indeed, when the Russian team paddled by, the raft was stone-cold silent, the result of four world championship appearances, each with the same people in the same positions. "We dreamed about this for a long time and went about it step by step," said Russian captain Petrov Sergei, 39, after the race. Step by step for the U.S. team meant being together in a raft only once before arriving in Futaleufu. "That's the problem," continues Kevin. "They do it for their country. You can see it in their eyes. We do it as individuals. Teamwork is something the Russians—and other Euro teams—have had instilled for a long time. We just learned about it this week."

Corey then adds his two cents. "We both walked into this focused on training for the Olympics," he says. "I don't think we realized what it meant to win. But I can honestly say that I'm extremely proud to be a member of the U.S. rafting team. I've been involved in solo sports for so long that I forgot what it's like to be part of a team."

When we finally rattle into town everyone disperses and gears up for the night's festivities, featuring a costumed Carnival parade down the unpaved Main Street. The Mexicans borrow horses and trot with tequila bottles and 50-gallon sombreros. The Japanese strut in full Samurai garb. The Costa Rican teams, clad in colorful clothes from the local second-hand store, yarn wigs and homemade Mardi Gras masks, dance to Rafael drumming on a paint bucket. The Russians and Slovenians—surprise—go as themselves, looking on stoically at the other merry-makers. No one, of course, is merrier than the U.S. team, led by the hairy-chested Kevin and thick-torsoed Corey, who prance down the street in underwear and bras borrowed from the U.S. women. They stay close, like Kevin's sheep, because they've learned a valuable lesson: whether you're rafting against the world's best or wearing women's lingerie, it pays to stick together.