Interesting Emendations: Ben McGrath's "Riverman"

I’ve just finished reading Ben McGrath’s Riverman (2022). What an extraordinary reconstruction of a remarkable life! It’s a moving portrait of a strange voyager, solo canoeist Dick Conant, who, over the course of twenty years, paddled thousands of miles of American rivers, and then in 2014 disappeared near the Outer Banks of North Carolina. McGrath first wrote about Conant in a New Yorker “Talk of the Town” story called “Southbound” (September 22, 2014). Then, after Conant went missing, McGrath wrote a much longer profile of him, “The Wayfarer” (The New Yorker, December 14, 2015) - one of the best New Yorker pieces of the last twenty years, in my opinion: (see my “Best of the Decade #6: Ben McGrath’s ‘The Wayfarer,’ ” July 1, 2020). But McGrath wasn’t done. Conant’s story so obsessed him, he wrote Riverman - a book-length account of Conant’s life and travels. 

Riverman deserves a detailed review. But I’m not ready to do that just yet. I want to go back and read it again, this time more slowly, paying attention to its intricate structure. What I’ll do today is focus on one of my favourite passages in the New Yorker piece and compare it with the version in the book.

Here’s the passage:

While preparing to leave town, Conant discovered that one of his backpacks, containing months’ worth of reserve medication, had been stolen. Trying not to panic, he paddled on, toward Trenton. A few of the bridges over the canal were so low that he had to lean back and retract his chin, sliding underneath, as though into an MRI scanner, while cars rolled overhead. Then, eight or nine miles north of the city, he encountered some differences between the canal as it flowed and the map in his mind, formed from advance Google satellite scouting. He spied a corrugated culvert pipe, off to the left, through which water was leaking down into a creek—the Assunpink Creek, he presumed—and he decided to have a little fun, paddling into the rusty chute. Down he went, into the dark, gaining speed as he bumped along for thirty or forty feet. He was briefly airborne before splashing out at the bottom and taking on about a gallon of water, a small price for the experience of canoeing “like a ski jumper!,” as he put it. The canal runoff provided the creek with some helpful momentum, and for the next several hours he negotiated snags and shoals and descended minor rapids, all while looking for a plausibly private campsite. 

Comparing this passage with the book version, I see five changes: 

1. In the first sentence, “stolen” is now “stolen or misplaced.”

2. In the fourth sentence, “he encountered some differences between the canal as it flowed and the map in his mind, formed from advance Google satellite scouting” is now “he encountered some differences between the canal as it flowed and the map in his mind.”

3. In the fifth sentence, “the Assunpink Creek, he presumed” is now “the Assunpink Creek, he presumed, recalling his reading, in Austin, about the Second Battle of Trenton.”

4. In the sixth sentence, “as he bumped along for thirty or forty feet” is now “as he bumped along for thirty feet.”

5. In the seventh sentence, “canoeing ‘like a ski jumper!,’ as he put it” is now “canoeing ‘like a ski jumper!’ as he put it” (the comma is deleted).

None of these changes are major. But, to me, they’re fascinating. They show the fine-tuning that goes into a great piece of writing. I was relieved to see that the third sentence - one of the most inspired lines in the piece - is unchanged. It’s so beautiful, I want to quote it again: “A few of the bridges over the canal were so low that he had to lean back and retract his chin, sliding underneath, as though into an MRI scanner, while cars rolled overhead.”