Ruthless River

by Holly Fitzgerald

  Chapter 15

  Hope

  FEBRUARY 20

  Second day trapped

  I woke with difficulty breathing, as if a steel beam were crushing my chest. Fitz was staring at the peak of the tent. I folded my arms around him.

  “Fitz, I’m scared.”

  “Me too,” he whispered.

  He made a fire. I stirred a tablespoon of powdered pea soup into boiling water, equal to very few calories. Already we’d needed to doctor more water with halazone tablets.

  Although we’d never said grace together, we now thanked God out loud for the coffee and broth. With reverence we sipped every drop, using our teeth to filter the mud, leaf, and twig content.

  Fitz peered into his empty cup then tipped it to lick the last bit. I scraped the sides of my cup with my spoon then licked it, too.

  I suggested we hold off on the tuna, even though my stomach screamed, “Eat it!” If Fitz wanted to eat it, I would agree in a second.

  He studied the can. “Let’s save it,” he said.

  I returned the tuna to the tent before we could change our minds. Then I sat down by Fitz again. This morning we had a choice to make: stay with the Pink Palace and wait to be rescued, or swim up the current and look for land so we could walk out of the swamp.

  “If we swim,” I said, “the closer we are to the Rio Madre, the stronger the current will get. I don’t know if I’m a strong enough swimmer.” The Madre could be a mile away or twenty. “Maybe we should follow the ‘Don’t leave the ship’ idea.”

  Fitz acquiesced. “We should wait in case a plane is sent by the aduana. A pilot would see the raft better than us swimming.”

  “And we’d have shelter and could conserve our energy.”

  But the Madre de Dios twisted through hundreds of miles of jungle. Would anyone really be able to spot our tiny tent out here? What if no one ever comes to this godforsaken channel? Why would they?

  We considered the danger of swimming in a channel that was most certainly teeming with piranha. Supposedly they wouldn’t attack unless they sensed spilt blood, but we risked being cut by objects beneath the water. What about candiru? We remembered Juan’s warning never to swim in the river. What would he suggest we do now? I heard a splash, then two more splashes a few feet away.

  “What the hell is that?” Fitz turned toward the sounds.

  We both scanned the wide swirls of expanding circles in the water beyond the stern.

  “You don’t think it’s a caiman, do you?” I yelped, moving closer to Fitz. Caimans could exceed fifteen feet and were far too big for us to defeat with our hands and two small knives.

  “That machete could have helped us.” Fitz sighed. “We could have cut a tree down and hacked it out for a canoe. Then we wouldn’t have to swim in this swamp at all.”

  “There are big snakes around here.” I had read of the boa constrictors and anacondas that swim here and crush their prey. Some snakes drop from trees, their venom so lethal that death comes in seconds after their bite. “And electric eels and stingrays.” I twisted a strand of my hair.

  It seemed safer to stay on the raft.

  Fitz took out a cigarette. “I feel like the Christians in the Colosseum. Pick the wrong door and you’re fucked.”

  We went back and forth for at least half an hour. I don’t know who first thought of praying, but we fell into seeking divine insight.

  “I think we should be proactive and try to escape,” Fitz finally concluded, his tense brow softening. “ ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ right?”

  For the first time in my life, that quote spoke personally to me. “It feels like the right answer.” I took a deep breath. “Which way should we swim? Up the channel or into the trees?”

  Fitz cleared his throat. “Look, Hol,” he said in a firm voice, probably so I wouldn’t disagree, “the best thing is for me to swim to land and bring back help. There’s got to be a village…”

  “Wait a minute!” I blurted out. Was he trying to change plans to protect me? “We’re doing this together, like everything else.” I was as firm as he was.

  “It’s just better if you stay on the raft. Anything could happen…”

  “That’s right. Anything could happen. What if a caiman got you and you called for help? I wouldn’t hear you. I couldn’t get there.”

  “If a caiman gets me you couldn’t save me anyway. There’s no point in the two of us…”

  “I’m going with you. Sitting here not knowing what’s happening to you would be worse than hell. I just can’t imagine that. I can’t imagine being lost either, but that would be worse. I’m going.” I spewed out my response like ammunition, so fast that it took us both aback.

  “Okay,” he shrugged. “We’ll both swim out.”

  We looked at the channel in silence.

  I envied the green parrots and the blue, elongated, deep-toned birds that darted across the water and up over the trees. If we only had their view we would know where we were and in which direction to go.

  There would be less current to contend with if we swam through the flooded brush and trees. We could get disoriented in the darkness and become fatally exhausted before we found land. And if we did find land, which way would we go then?

  Fitz smoked a cigarette as we debated.

  Our best chance might be to swim up the channel. Going against the current would eventually lead us to its source, where we at least had the hope of a settlement or a passing boat. Then again, fighting the increasingly strong current could debilitate us faster than if we swam through the trees. Either choice felt hopeless.

  “Somewhere up the channel there has to be a riverbank.”

  “Yes…” Fitz’s voice trailed off as he stared up the swamp. “It better be sooner than later.”

  I let out a sigh and reached for him. We both knew it was going to be rough. We sat on the raft, cherishing this last moment of her solidity. I began to think of life preservers.

  An inlet near the raft smelled of rot and detritus. The water was stagnant there. Just the sight of it depressed me. Then my mind opened.

  “Fitz! Look at those logs. If they’re not rotten, we could each swim with one. If they’re light and buoyant they could work like floats.”

  Fitz’s head tilted toward where I pointed. He took a last puff of his cigarette and stubbed it out. His mouth widened into a grin. “Great idea, kiddo. There’s got to be a couple of good ones out there in the muck.” He reached for another cigarette.

  He was smoking more than usual. What would he do without them when he ran out? I leaned toward him and gave him a hug.

  “Yes,” I said, “for sure.”

  We stood up and scanned the lime-colored water plants, lily pads, floating leaves, dead branches. Many hues of yellow, green, brown—what were they camouflaging? Our eyes burned into the swamp, seeking the right logs.

  “Look! Jesus! A small raft!” Fitz cried.

  “Where?”

  “Beside those dead branches, thirty-five, forty feet straight out!”

  “Yes!” A small raft was mostly submerged, but the tops of three or four logs broke the surface. A thought flashed through my mind: Did its owner end up like us?

  “How did you ever see it?” I asked, pulling Fitz into a bear hug. It was as if we’d hit gold. We could use it to go upriver instead of swimming. It would be safer. I laughed and squeezed him so hard he almost lost his footing on the logs.

  We both laughed so loud that a startled bird flew from the foliage, which in turn startled us. It was iridescent blue, with a long, deep green tail that caught the sun so brightly that my eyes closed trying to follow it. I smiled at the hope we now had, and the beauty we’d just witnessed, if only for a moment.

  “Now comes the tough part,” Fitz announced. We couldn’t reach the small raft without swimming. “We were planning to swim anyway. I might as well get started.”

  We spun it out as long as possible, studying the water, looking for signs of caimans
and anacondas. A sense of dread made me shudder.

  “What?” asked Fitz. “Do you see something?”

  “No.” Every dead frond, every slimy leaf looked ominous. Every swaying plant growing to the top of the water moved like a snake. Every stick and log glistening wet in the morning sun might have a head, a snout, teeth. “It’s nothing,” I said, not looking at him, but when I finally turned to face him my words tumbled out. “We don’t know what’s out there. Well, we know what’s out there; that’s the trouble…”

  Fitz untied the long, thick vine that tethered the Pink Palace. The raft was so entrenched in bushes that it really didn’t need tethering. He tied the vine around his waist. “I’ll wear this. If something grabs me, pull this as hard as you can,” he said, handing me the other end.

  Nodding, I twisted the vine around my hands, hoping I had the strength—and, more, that it wouldn’t be needed. It occurred to me that this vine was just an illusion to make us feel safer.

  How could I possibly pull him from the jaws of a caiman?

  “Maybe I’d be better at getting the little raft,” I suggested, warily. “You’d be stronger at pulling me back.”

  I knew my husband. He would insist on getting the raft himself. And, of course, there was no way around it. He was stronger.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said, scowling. “You’d never get that raft out of there alone.” Fitz put on his long jeans and a T-shirt for protection in the water, but no shoes. He squatted on the edge of the raft as if he was going in then thought better of it, grabbing another cigarette. “One for the road.”

  He smoked unfiltered cigarettes, so he tapped one end of the pack to settle the tobacco so it wouldn’t flick into his mouth. He nestled the tip between his lips, struck a match, lit the end, and breathed in deeply. He exhaled, long and quietly, his eyes closed. Not a smoker, I imagined his habit must ease his nerves. I wished I smoked and could put myself in a meditative state, too.

  “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.” He slid over the side of the raft into the water, keeping two hands on the edge of the outermost log. One hand still held the cigarette. The smoke drifted up and hung in the air. “It doesn’t feel too bad.” He made a face. He hung on to the side of the raft a little longer, thick mud, algae, and slime swirling around him. “It’s warm…kind of refreshing.” He took one more puff then flicked the cigarette far out into the swamp. “I’m ready.”

  “Be careful.” I kissed him.

  Fitz swam toward the tiny raft. Each moment I feared a caiman would pull him down or a snake would strike. Did something move, or was it Fitz disturbing the water? The tip of a log rose above the slime, reflecting light off its glossy, wet back. A knot in the limb looked like a yellow-and-black eye. The blazing sun jumped and flickered. Every branch with green, brown, black, or yellow leaves came alive. A splash a few feet to his left, a bubbling gurgle behind him, a low, seething growl. A quick snap.

  I was perspiring profusely, but I didn’t dare let go of the vine to wipe my eyes and face. My wet palms made the vine slippery. I played out more vine, at the same time bracing myself in case I had to pull it back in. Fitz kept swimming through the debris, shoving logs and branches aside, pulling himself over others if they wouldn’t stir. He banged his legs and feet on logs and rocks below the waterline, uttering startled yelps and expletives. Dragging himself over a dead tree bough, he gave out a huge groan.

  “Are you okay?” If he’d scratched himself the piranha could come like lightning.

  “Yes,” he answered, and kept swimming.

  When he reached the small raft he turned toward me. “I made it!” he whooped, raising his arm in triumph, then leaned on the half-submerged raft to rest.

  I marveled at his physical strength, with only a cup of thin soup in him, but I remained uneasy. He still had to bring the raft back.

  He tried to jiggle it out of whatever held it down. “It’s pretty well jammed in here.”

  “Please hurry.”

  “There’s just one edge that’s caught,” he called.

  He dove down into the muck. I watched his feet disappear. My eyes remained on the spot where he’d entered, where circular swirls rippled out on the surface. An eternity seemed to pass though surely it was only seconds.

  When Fitz popped up, water flattening his mop of hair, he practically sang, “I got it out!” as the raft lifted to the surface. “Give me a pull.”

  I yanked the sweat-slick vine, back and legs rigid to maximize my strength. My arms burned as I tried to hurry.

  Fitz held on to the little raft, kicking with his feet, pushing and pulling the raft over and under the obstacles he’d faced on his way out. “Pull harder,” he directed, trying to drag it through the brush.

  I pulled as if I were playing tug-of-war, bracing my bare feet one behind the other. I felt I might go overboard at any time, but I was stronger than I’d thought I was.

  When he finally touched our raft, I pulled him up. He was shaking. He released the vine from his waist and tied it to the small balsa raft, then collapsed on the plank floor inside the tent. I gave him water.

  The late-afternoon humidity lifted. Dusk drops like a brick in the tropics, so we had perhaps an hour of light to see if the raft was safe with both of us aboard. If it was, we could escape on it tomorrow.

  After a few minutes’ rest we extended our legs slowly out to the small raft. The raft was about two feet by four feet. It didn’t sink with the two of us on it, although it was slightly submerged. There were two-inch spaces between the four crooked limbs held together by nailed boards.

  We paddled it around the Pink Palace, discovering that it was clumsy to turn. Even the slow current here pushed us back, but we hoped we’d be stronger after a night’s sleep. We both felt dog-tired, our stomachs hollow. We each chewed a small chunk of cheese before turning in.

  “We’ll get out of here in the morning,” I said as we crawled under the mosquito netting for our last night on the Pink Palace.

  Tomorrow night we wouldn’t have the mosquitero’s protection, but we should be back on land somewhere along the river. I lay down and listened to the hum of the hungry mosquitoes outside, searching for holes in the netting. Relieved to have a plan, I ignored the nighttime jungle sounds exploding around us, choosing to focus only on hope.

  Chapter 16

  The Logjam

  FEBRUARY 21

  Third day trapped

  We rose when it was still dark. The birds weren’t even awake. Catching ourselves whispering as if not to disturb them, we dressed by flashlight in jeans and shirts then collected the few items we would take with us. I removed the camera from its bag along with the lenses and boxes of film. My camera had been with me longer than I’d been with Fitz. As much as it had been a part of me, I had to let it go. We didn’t need it to survive.

  Out in the blackness, on our side of the swamp, a sucking sound erupted—big as thunder, just beyond the trees. Louder and louder, like a tornado coming to squash us. It was a sound like none I’d ever heard. I reached for Fitz. “What’s that?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know.”

  The noise grew even stronger, howling as it reverberated across the open water.

  “It’s too big to be alive. Maybe it’s a whirlpool,” Fitz whispered. “It just started up—like someone threw a switch.” His arms trembled and so did mine.

  I clamped my hands over my ears and leaned harder into him. We held our breath, waiting for the noise’s source to reveal itself, waiting for the movement of a whirlpool that would suck us down.

  As quickly as it came, the mysterious sound lowered to a rumble then vanished. We remained motionless, our arms still around each other, listening. I couldn’t shake the thought that it was a bad omen, like the christening bottle that wouldn’t break.

  The sun finally peeked over the trees, bringing with it the distraction of jungle noises: parrots, birds, frogs, splashes in the swamp. A symphony of background music that was barely noticeable until i
t wasn’t there, the way honks and sirens become white noise in the city.

  Fitz opened the tent flap. “Let’s get the hell out of here before it starts up again.”

  We skipped the coffee; a fire would take too long. Fitz opened the can of tuna fish we’d been too tired to eat last night and scooped two and a half ounces onto each plate.

  I looked at my chunks, so small, my hunger so big. I looked at Fitz. “You’re bigger than me. You should have more.”

  “It’s not enough to even notice,” he said with a shrug.

  Not usually, but now it is, I thought. “Here.” I handed him a small piece of mine. He shook his head firmly and put his hand over his plate.

  I didn’t argue. With one mouthful the tuna fish was gone. It didn’t touch my hunger. Swirling my tongue between my teeth and around my gums, I ached for one more morsel. On this third day I couldn’t imagine being hungrier. Could it be worse for Fitz, who was nine and a half inches taller than me and seventy pounds heavier?

  I rubbed his arm. “We better get going.”

  He nodded.

  We packed the last of the food in the waterproof Naugahyde camera bag: the can of evaporated milk, and the remains of the sugar and dehydrated packet of pea soup. In went the can opener for the milk, then the cigarettes and matches wrapped in plastic, protected inside their small tin. Fitz pushed in slickers, towels, extra clothes, mosquito repellent, malaria pills, halazone tablets, and the tiny bottle of iodine. We didn’t take the coffee.

  “We’ve got to take these.” I held up two cellophane-wrapped Kodak snapshots of our toddler niece, Liza, posing on my mother’s lawn. Her cherry-cheeked face looked directly at me from one photo; baby doll rose lips spread to a big smile above her tiny shoulders. She was wearing her new red wool jacket, tied at the neck with yarn pom-poms; her red sneakers peeked out from under red-flowered overalls. I could have cried.

  Beside her lay puffy-haired Zelda, pink tongue out. Her dark eyes looked alert, her front legs extended forward, haunches curled under, ready to jump. On the back of each photograph my mother had written “Oct. 13, ’72,” four days after Liza’s second birthday. She’d mailed them to us in La Paz in time for Christmas. Now they were the only evidence we had of our lives back home.