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Jason
 
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Default Great kayaking article in the LA Times

Whitewater roulette

Assessing danger is an essential skill in chancy sports like
whitewater kayaking. The problem is we're lousy at it. Or so say the
research guys in the white lab coats.

By Charles Duhigg, Times Staff Writer [EMAIL AT:
]


Photos and video at:
http://www.latimes.com/features/outdoors/la-os-springcreek27apr27.story


The paddlers scout the waterfall, their kayaks as bright as bits of
candy against the Sierra Nevada's sculpted gray granite. Behind them,
water blasts into the mountain air through a misshapen rock spout,
then hammers down on the rock ledge below. But Seth Warren's eyes are
on Phil Boyer's hands.

Boyer, 35, is a two-time whitewater rafting world champion. Warren's
home is a van he drives across the nation on behalf of a sports
clothing company. They speak in the soft patois of surfers, earn less
money than many fast-food workers, can finish a jug of cheap wine in
less than 20 minutes and kayak nearly every day. Their lives are the
envy of river aficionados worldwide.

Today they stand over "the teacups," a largely vertical stretch of the
Kern River, because, when it comes to running rapids and assessing
risks, they are sure they're among the nation's best. They also know
the river could kill them anyway.

Approach from the left, then charge hard to the right, Boyer says,
mapping out the run with hands that have become rock, water and kayak.

Warren, 26, watches and listens intently. To a point.

"Don't overexplain the rapid to me," he finally cautions. "I won't be
able to run it."

Random fatalities

Warren and his companions know a kayaker broke both his arms here two
years ago. Boaters die in similar waterfalls every year. In 2000, the
last year for which complete statistics were collected by American
Whitewater, a river-sports advocacy group, at least 47 paddlers
drowned nationwide. Some perished because of inexperience or lack of
safety equipment, but many of the deaths conform to no pattern.

In one case two kayakers successfully cleared a 6-foot waterfall and
slid through a rock-infested landing zone, according to incident
reports. The third kayaker, however, slightly misguided his boat and
ran it into a rock. Water pressure pushed the craft against a boulder,
flipping it over and plunging his head underwater. The impact was so
great that it collapsed the top of his craft, clamping his leg and
preventing escape. It took four men using tools to eventually remove
the dead body from the kayak.

In another instance, a kayaker easily surmounted a waterfall in North
Carolina amid rain, sleet and high winds. Fifty yards downstream, a
small ledge in the riverbed created a "hole" — a depression in the
river's bottom where water dangerously recirculates, as if in a
washing machine. The six other kayakers accompanying the paddler
approached the hole only seconds behind him and saw his helmet flash
in the backwash. He recirculated for four minutes, each cycle holding
him under for 20 seconds, allowing him to surface briefly, then
pulling him under again. Then he popped out of the hole and floated
serenely, already dead. None of the others even brushed danger.

Each year almost as many people die on calm, moderately challenging
rapids as on large, expert-only waterfalls.

Warren and his companions believe they know how to identify and avoid
risks. And to a degree, they are right. But much of their confidence
is an illusion. While humans are exceptionally good at identifying
risks, we're notoriously fallible at estimating the likelihood that a
risk will materialize.

In kayaking, hazards lie beneath the water's surface and risks are
unpredictable. If one of these kayakers dies, it will likely have far
less to do with his abilities than with the fact that we humans are,
at our core, awful risk assessors.

Risk aversion

"I have a plan for every stroke before I even get wet," Warren says as
his bright orange boat glides through the first teacup, paddles
flashing like the blades of a windmill.

As he and Boyer approach the drop — an 8-foot tube of water that
angles at 45 degrees — they are confronted with a choice. To the left
of the lip, water falls calmly but a small rock juts out, a slight
though obvious hazard. To the right, the water churns viciously. There
may be dangers underneath, but they are hidden from sight.

As they analyze the options, the human weaknesses that plague decision
making emerge.

The mistake Warren is about to commit was discovered decades ago in a
series of experiments. In one of the first social science
laboratories, professors in white coats recruited human lab rats and
presented them with two alternatives: a traditional insurance plan, in
which the premium is $100 and all stolen belongings are replaced, or a
new type of insurance in which subjects pay only a $45 premium, but if
their belongings go missing the insurance company will flip a coin. If
it comes up heads they'll pay the claim, but tails pays nothing.

From a rational perspective, the $45 choice is superior: Subjects
received 50% coverage for only 45% of the premium. But subjects
overwhelmingly chose the $100 insurance policy. Why? Because most
humans instinctively seek to eliminate risk rather than merely reduce
it.

Warren's natural instinct, like that of people choosing between
insurance plans, is to eliminate the river's risk. But this desire is
so strong that the slightest of cues can encourage the perception that
risk has been removed.

As Warren and Boyer paddle forward they begin subconsciously
classifying obstacles as either risky or safe. Their natural instinct
is to choose the path that seems completely riskless, rather than the
avenue that contains small, potentially risky obstacles that can be
avoided.

The greatest hazards in whitewater kayaking are unseen. A decade ago
Boyer surmounted a waterfall when his boat suddenly stopped, the bow
pinned beneath an underwater log. His boat slid farther under the log
until the wood pushed against his body, forcing him underwater and
preventing his escape. All he saw were white bubbles, then green light
as his head dropped below the surface.

Suddenly a current caught the back of the boat and pulled it free. If
not for the chance surge, he would have died. From the surface, the
log was invisible.

On the teacup, the turbulent water to the right might hide anything.
But the instinct to eliminate risk, rather than tolerate a reduced
hazard, pushes them toward the frothing portion of the fall.

"I couldn't tell what was going on to the right, but I assumed it was
safer," Boyer says later.

Both kayaks twist slightly as they enter the waterfall, the boats
rocking as the underwater hydraulics push and pull. Then they shoot
into the air and plop into the next pool. There have been no
underwater obstacles. After a brief delay, both men successfully
surmount the second waterfall, riding the water as it sprays over a
rock protruding like a giant's brow, and pause in the cold water
beneath.

Overconfidence

Warren and Boyer paddle to the lip of the next waterfall and look at
each other.

"Do you remember looking at this drop?" Boyer asks.

"Uhh, no," Warren replies.

If they could step onto the rocky bank, they would see an 11-foot
fall, the rushing water filtering the light like sea glass and making
the rocks underneath pale and wavy. But from their kayaks, all they
can see is a thin line where the drop begins, and the horizon. They
stood above this fall only 10 minutes ago, trying to memorize all six
drops. Now their memories are blank.

"Well, I guess that means it's OK," Boyer says hopefully, and he
paddles to the edge.

Certainty is an integral part of kayaking. "You have to be 100%
confident," Boyer explained earlier. Every kayaker feels a little bit
of fear on the water — that's part of the excitement. "But if you
start thinking about the mistakes you can make, you'll make them."

But confidence can be dangerous. After the white-coated experimenters
learned about humans' instinct to eliminate risk, they began to ask
why. One answer is overconfidence — a compensatory instinct that pops
up when humans crave control but are confronted by random chance.

Boyer's confidence in his abilities may be so high because he has so
little control over the river's dangers. In a series of experiments,
professors tested how people respond to random events: Subjects were
shown reports on 12 stocks and asked to predict the stock market's
future, and to rate their confidence in their predictions. Researchers
found that if the average stock buyer is asked to predict, say, the
price of Wal-Mart's stock over one year, most will admit ignorance.
But when confronted with a new high-flying Internet offering and lots
of meaningless tables and charts, many will make predictions with
unwarranted confidence.

For his part, Boyer seems as confident as the granite as he teeters
atop the fall and smoothly drops over.

"No problem!" he shouts up to Warren, who follows him over the edge.

The big fall

As they approach the big waterfall, Warren doesn't think about the
warnings Boyer mentioned earlier. Instead he focuses on not focusing
and dips his paddle deep into the rushing water.

Psychology supports Warren's instinct. Eventually researchers began
wondering: If everyone is prone to overconfidence, why do some people
consistently make the right call?

The answer, they discovered, may have to do with which part of
Warren's brain is doing the heavy lifting. The prime goal of decision
making is to move thought from the prefrontal lobes of the cerebral
cortex, where deliberate, conscious decisions are made, to the
posterior neocortex and amygdala, where thought processes are more
automatic. Athletes refer to it as being "in the zone"; psychologists
call it "flow."

As he approaches the big fall, Warren scans the water almost lazily,
paddling into the waterfall's spray and twisting his body as the kayak
goes over the drop. He lands softly. "I tried not to think too much,"
he shouts up as explanation.

Warren and Boyer know they paddle better when they are in "the zone."
But as their thinking becomes less deliberate, it falls prey to a
psychological weakness: the subconscious perception of patterns where
none exist. They believe that previous successful runs prove they are
ready for these dangerous rapids. But the truth is that their previous
successes may inspire them to believe in patterns that blind them to
dangers that can quickly emerge.

The teacup falls are similar to rows of horizontal and vertical lights
laboratory geeks used in the 1950s to discover what happens when
different parts of the brain try to predict the future. Subjects were
shown the lights and asked to predict which row would light up. They
were told the lightings would be random.

In spite of this knowledge, subjects of the study were incapable of
choosing randomly. Rather, they were influenced by whether their
previous prediction had been correct. If so, there was up to a 72%
chance that they would make the same guess. Even when subjects were
offered financial rewards if they chose randomly, they were unable to
do it. Subconsciously, subjects saw patterns where none existed and
were influenced by a cause-and-effect relationship that wasn't real.
The same instinct enriches casinos every day.

As they think about kayaking, Warren and Boyer perceive patterns.
"I've run a thousand falls," Warren says, "and they've gotten me ready
for these ones."

Warren is right. Years of practice have prepared him to confront
bigger and more deadly risks — as long as those risks increase
incrementally. But if the risks suddenly become exponentially more
deadly, his instinct to rely on patterns may expose him to danger,
says Baruch Fischoff, a professor of social and decision sciences at
Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh.

As a river rises from 1,500 cubic feet per second (cfs) to 2,000 cfs,
it may become marginally more risky. But the same river may be
significantly more deadly as soon as it hits 2,500 cfs. To someone
seeking out patterns, it appears the flow has only increased
incrementally. Skeptics know that the risk has surmounted a tipping
point and is now exponentially more dangerous.

Boyer and Warren both have an instinct to base future predictions on
patterns, and they are both experienced kayakers. But they have never
run these waterfalls before.

"People typically imagine they are more in control then they really
are," says Fischoff.

Boyer concentrates as he approaches the big fall. Others have warned
him to push his boat high onto the rock wall and use it to slide over
the turbulent flow. He focuses on the granite walls, hardly looking at
the water around him, and paddles toward the incline.

His boat tips over the fall, rides up the rock and stalls, the bow
almost out of the water. The river whips the stern around. Boyer
twists hard to compensate, but by then the kayak is jutting over the
drop, teetering. It pushes over the edge and falls, rotating clockwise
through the air as it builds speed, then smacks into a ledge, bouncing
and beginning to flip. Boyer loses control. The kayak corkscrews. His
head barely missing the rock, he plummets over the falls upside down
and lands that way in the water.

A vicious twist propels his body upright.

"I missed it!" he screams.

He runs his hand up his neck, making sure he is uninjured.

Moments later, the men pause in the chain's final pool.

"Should we do it again?" Boyer asks as they pull their kayaks onto
stone.

"Sure," Warren says. He looks up, scanning the immutable rock and
ever-changing water. "These falls are a no-brainer," he says. The men
start climbing.
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