By Judith E. Joyce
We got on the river mid-morning.
My then-husband, Joe.
Our neighbor and my former college roommate, Julie.
Her husband, Nigel.
And their two kids.
Four-year-old Tavia — big eyes, chubby cheeks.
She loved looking at her reflection.
She would dance in front of the mirror and smile at the girl in the window.
On the river, she would lean in — waving at the one waving back from the water.
Her three-year-old brother, Isaac — wiggly and curious,
with white-blond hair
and his mother’s big, open smile.
Julie, Nigel, and the kids were in the canoe.
Joe and I were in kayaks.
Floating through riffles, deep pools, and Class I rapids.
Watching birds, diving muskrats, and fish moving below us.
It was perfect.
At our favorite spot, we stopped for lunch.
Clear, cool water slipped over smooth rock beneath limestone bluffs.
We searched for the elusive Pleistocene snail.
“Feel the cold air coming from the cracks,” I told them. “The snails need that cold to survive.”
“Wow.”
They nodded very seriously — and then went right back to splashing in their life jackets.
Sunlight danced on the water.
Laughter.
One of those moments where everything simply is.
After lunch, we eased back into the current.
Joe moved at his own pace, as he often did. We paused to wait.
Julie angled the canoe toward the bank.
That instant everything changed.
The canoe flipped.
Nigel went under and downriver.
Julie scrambled toward shore.
Isaac and Tavia disappeared behind the hull.
I jumped from my kayak and swam hard.
Isaac was being carried downstream. I grabbed him and hauled him onto the bank beside a tree.
“Hold on tight. Do not let go.”
He was screaming.
But Tavia—
I did not see her.
Julie kept looking for her, calling her name.
I pulled myself up onto a massive boulder and looked downstream.
Nothing.
She had a life jacket, I told myself. It was a small creek. She had to be somewhere.
Then fear hit — sharp and absolute.
I scanned the river.
What next?
Joe appeared.
“Do you see her?”
“No.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the canoe — the current carrying it downstream.
Upside down.
Something in me clicked.
Could she?
“Grab the canoe!”
“Don’t worry about the canoe—” Joe said.
“Grab it!”
He hesitated.
“Flip it over!”
We did.
And there she was.
Underneath.
Face down.
Still.
Life jacket on.
Blue.
I pulled her to the bank and opened her life jacket.
Her abdomen was swollen — visibly distended.
I gasped.
Training took over.
“Call 911.”
Tilt head.
Breathe in.
Listen.
Nothing.
Breathe in.
Listen. Watch.
Nothing.
Breathe in.
Listen. Watch.
Was that her breath?
Or mine?
Breathe in.
Listen. Watch.
And then—
She inhaled.
Not like on television.
No coughing.
No dramatic gasp.
No sitting up.
Just a small breath.
Still unconscious. Breathing.
Minutes passed. Or seconds.
I dug out my phone.
Called 911.
Terrible reception.
Where were we? Past the big rock. Near the golf course. After the flat stretch. Two bends in.
The dispatcher had no idea.
We heard the helicopter overhead — the sound bouncing off the bluffs.
Nigel ran to flag it down.
They were searching in the wrong place.
We were hidden — trapped below a steep bank, thick with brambles.
Think, Judy!
Call Kata.
She knew this river. She could guide them in.
Time stretched.
Then — voices.
The sheriff couldn’t get down the slope.The helicopter would land above us.
A young medic in shorts and water shoes scrambled partway down.
We would have to get Tavia up the slope.
There was no backboard. No rope. No harness. No easy way up.
Julie, still in shock, lifted her semi-conscious daughter and climbed.
Up the rock face. Through thorns and brush.
Not graceful.
Adrenaline.
A mother’s fierce instinct.
They made it up.
Nigel followed.
And then they were gone — airlifted to Iowa City.
Joe and I stayed behind with Isaac.
We floated downstream in near silence,
gathering paddles, a cooler — the scattered remains of the day.
At the hospital, the doctors placed Tavia in a medically induced coma.
They pumped her stomach.
Her swollen belly meant the water had gone into her stomach — not her lungs.
A tiny flap had closed at exactly the right moment.
It saved her lungs.
A good thing.
In the days that followed, a friend said I saved Tavia.
I didn’t feel like I had saved her.
I felt well-trained. Prepared.
And drained.
On that riverbank, I did what I knew to do.
Assessed the situation.
Evaluated risk.
Accepted reality.
Acted.
When I saw the canoe — upside down in the water — something clicked.
A sudden awareness.
She could be there.
Hope.
Tavia died and lived in the same afternoon.
We experienced joy.
We experienced suffering.
We felt everything.
It took about a month for her to recover.
She stopped talking for a while.
She sucked her thumb again.
She slipped backward before she moved forward.
She healed.
She graduated from Grinnell College and is now pursuing environmental engineering, still drawn to nature and water.
I look at her now.
A young woman.
Strong.
Strength shaped by risk.
Strong enough to live fully anyway.
And she still leans toward the water to see her reflection.
___
Judith E. Joyce is a geomorphologist who has spent her life studying rivers — and listening to them. Her love of water began in the creeks of her childhood, where mud, current, and imagination shaped both her career and her sense of wonder. Today, she works across the Midwest restoring streams and wetlands, helping communities reconnect with the landscapes that sustain them. She was featured on Iowa Public Radio’s Talk of Iowa in the episode “Stories In and Around Water” (December 19, 2025), and continues to explore the intersection of science, memory, risk, and resilience through storytelling. You can find her on Instagram at @asterdances or reach her at jjoyce.earthview@gmail.com.