The creek runs at you from the top of the screen. Every wall of whitewater is one heartbeat, and there is a gap in it. Slip through.
Touch the water and the river is in your hand. Drag, and the canoe follows. Let go, and it holds its line. The grips in the bottom corners still paddle one side each.
Every gap is fed by a tongue of glassy water. Hold your line in the glass all the way to the drop, and the drop pays you double. The tongue is the PR: a long, deep, streaked chute before every drop is first degree block, the same length every time.
Two thumbs down at once is a brace. In ordinary water it holds you straight. In an arrest it charges a shock, and letting go delivers it.
At the end of a stretch the creek splits and each mouth carries a painted sign. Paddle into the one matching the water you just ran. Getting it wrong scrapes the boat. Nobody drowns for not knowing a name yet.
A band runs across the top of the water: the same beats, drawn the way a nurse reads them. The green number is the rate on the paper. The amber one is the rate that is actually moving the boat, and the two do not always agree.
Some water cannot be paddled. The current dies, or the channel comes apart, and the answer is your hands: alternating strokes are compressions, a held thumb charges, letting go delivers the shock. Every seven seconds the creek calls a rhythm check. Hands off, and paddle into the mouth that says what this rhythm needs.
Left and right arrows steer. Space holds. Escape pauses. Everything here is playable without a touchscreen.
Something wrong with the water? Say what happened and what you were doing when it did. It goes straight to the person who can fix it.
No name, no email, nothing that identifies you. Sent with it: the screen you were on, which water you were running, and your screen size.
The water waits.
Map and Home both end this attempt. Start over runs the same water again.