Fitz pulled himself up to the first limb, shouldering the bag. “I’m okay,” he said when I looked down.
We both paused to glance up the channel. Still no land in sight.
Then I stared back at the water we’d struggled against all day. My heart fell when I spotted the pink and blue of our tent. We’d paddled against the current for ten or twelve hours and we were still within sight of her. I couldn’t take my eyes off the last of the light hitting the tent’s peak.
“How’s that limb?” Fitz asked, looking up at me.
“It’s fine…but Fitz, I see the Pink Palace. I can’t believe how little distance we’ve traveled…” I hoped he didn’t hear the tremble in my voice.
Fitz turned his gaze down the swamp. “Shit,” he muttered. “This is as far as we got?”
The darkening forest was coming alive with eerie night sounds. Birds began barking, hooting, and scuffling in the trees. Large bats swooped over the water. Fitz buckled the black bag’s strap around a limb. Hanging on to the limb with one hand, he pushed his hat back on his head with the other and stared up the channel. Usually he would have added a few more expletives, or some thoughtful explanation. I didn’t know what to think when he was silent.
Mustering himself, perhaps for my sake as well as his own, he finally said, “We never said we’d make it out in a day.” His voice was strong. “Find us some limbs, Hol. We’ve got to rest for tomorrow.”
I reached for the next branch. Climbing focused me so I couldn’t dwell on the psychological punch in my chest—or the hunger in my stomach. “This is a good branch. Come up.” Then I climbed onto the next branch, which had a nice curve for sitting.
“Watch your hands and feet,” Fitz called. “There could be snakes or bats the color of the bark.”
Or fire ants. The shadows of the last light played tricks and I couldn’t be sure if the branch was safe. I banged the limb. It seemed fine. I put my whole weight on it, holding on to the branch above me for balance. Crack! The limb gave way under my left foot, crashing down into the water. “Aah!”
“Jesus!” Fitz yelled.
My left foot hung in midair, but my right foot was still on the unbroken nub of the branch.
I quickly wrapped my arms around the upper branch I’d been holding on to. If I couldn’t hold on I would crash into the lower branches on my way down into the water. I would certainly break a leg or my neck.
“Inch your right foot closer to the trunk to make room for your other foot,” Fitz urged. My left foot felt for the stub of the limb where my right foot was and found a place.
“Jesus,” Fitz said again.
I positioned my two feet near the trunk then climbed down to the branch above him. My legs were melting like sticks of butter on a griddle. “I…can’t move.”
“You can,” Fitz reassured me, his voice steady. “You’ve done the worst part already.”
After a few moments my legs stopped shaking. “I’m afraid to pick another. What if they’re all rotten inside?”
“This one’s still holding me. Come back down here.”
“But we don’t know if it can hold both of us. I’ll try this one to the side. I’ll be careful.” I felt braver again and started backing down to a side limb.
“Hol, that was close. Just get to another solid limb before it gets dark. I’m feeling a little queasy.”
I landed on the side limb, a few feet down and to the right of the trunk. Its girth was at least three feet. I banged it then walked out on it, hands always grasping the limb above. “I don’t see anything rotten,” I finally announced.
“Okay.”
Slowly inching my way to a sitting position, I straddled the limb.
Fitz took his time sitting down against the curve created by the joining of the trunk and the other branch.
“You’re like a mountain goat,” he sighed.
Lianas hung down from the branches. We used some to secure us to the trunk. We leaned against the fat tree, legs hanging over the broad boughs we’d chosen. As darkness turned into pitch-black night, we were grateful for the lack of rain. Our clothes, wet from rafting, were almost dry.
Roars of unknown origin echoed across the water. Other rustling, slithering sounds were too close. Creatures were hunting. Branches on nearby trees jounced, leaves fluttering. Something hit my face. Oh, my God, is it a vampire bat? I thought. They suck blood! I twitched my cheek, and the thing fell away. Something else bumped my branch.
I peered into the darkness toward the thump. This was our first time in the wild without the Pink Palace as refuge. Its mosquito netting had provided a gauzy separation from insects and, mentally, from hungry jungle animals. “We can’t see anything, but everything can see us,” I groaned.
“I have an idea,” Fitz replied, his voice hopeful. “I’ll pee a border around us to let the animals know this territory is ours.”
Scared as I was, I nearly laughed out loud. “Sure.” I was willing to try anything. He did.
It was a terrible night. The mosquitoes bit endlessly. Some pica ants crawled over us, though not many. They pierced and burned then moved on. Fitz had slept sitting up in Vietnam, but never in a tree. The vines could only do so much. Each time I started to drift off, despite fearing the bats, I leaned one way or the other and began to fall. The vines jerked me awake.
“This is miserable,” I complained, slapping at mosquitoes. “Torturous little beasts.”
Silence.
“Fitz?”
He could sleep even in a tree!
I clung to the vines, my legs knotted around the branch, trying to visualize a firm bed with smooth sheets and fluffy pillows. My body softened.
I was awakened by what sounded like a motorboat putt-putting in the distance. Someone’s out there! “Fitz! Do you hear that? Wake up!” I tried to touch him with my foot.
“What?”
“I hear a motorboat! Listen.”
The putting sound was still going.
“¡Socorro, socorro!” we yelled, but no one answered. The putting drifted away and was gone.
“They didn’t hear us over the motor,” I said.
“No.”
Silence. Then hope burst through again. “A motorboat means civilization is out there,” I said. “We’ve got to be close to the river. Maybe there’ll be another boat tomorrow.”
“Let’s get some sleep so we’ll be ready.”
“I love you, Fitz.”
“I love you, too.”
Would this night ever end? I needed sleep but was afraid it would send me crashing to my death despite the lianas. How did birds and animals sleep without keeling over? Each time I succumbed to exhaustion I was immediately yanked awake by the lianas stopping me from falling. Oh, my God, this is unbearable. I remembered the prayer I’d learned as a child, and recited it to myself while thinking of my mother: “If I die before I wake…”
Chapter 18
Wrestling Match
FEBRUARY 22
Fourth day trapped
In the morning I awoke with a crick in my neck. A patch of pale yellow sky hung overhead, crisscrossed by skinny gray boughs, like a quilt. I unwrapped myself from the vine that had kept me from falling, and peered through sandman eyes at Fitz on the thick branch below. Rustling leaves in trees next to ours suggested other creatures were also awake.
“Good morning,” I said. I was relieved that the night was finally over. “Fitz! We heard a motorboat last night. The river has to be close.”
Fitz nodded. “Gotta be.”
This cheered me. Instead of grumbling about the masses of mosquito bites I’d gotten last night, the horrendous lack of sleep, and the hunger pangs in my stomach, I asked, “What would you like for breakfast?”
“A stack of flapjacks with a fried egg on top, and sides of ham and sausage.”
“You don’t even like eggs.”
“I do now.”
“I’ve got a bit of sugar, powdered pea soup, and a can of milk.”
&nb
sp; “I’ll take it.”
I thought of all the wonderful Saturday morning pancake breakfasts we’d enjoyed in Connecticut on the one morning a week when we weren’t working. Sauntering into the kitchen from bed and love, tousled hair, sun streaming from the window onto the old Formica table. Fitz making the pancakes, light as air, the bacon crisp. I loved that smell. Zelda, lying in the doorway, her puffy tail wagging, hoping for a dropped morsel.
—
As the sun showed itself, we climbed down from the tree and slipped onto the waterlogged raft, carefully positioning ourselves and the camera bag, one at a time.
“Damn!” Fitz said.
“What?”
“My hat! It must have fallen off in the night. Where the hell is it? I’m going to need it.”
We searched the immediate area but saw no sign of it. We decided it must have fallen into the channel.
“What the hell am I going to use now for the glare and that goddamn heat?”
“Use mine.”
Half the time it was too hot to wear hats, but they did protect our necks. Fitz’s neck had burned red even with his Panama. I had been braiding my hair to keep it off my skin while wearing my hat, but I could let it hang down to cover my neck. We were usually soaked from the splashing paddles anyway.
“I’m not taking your hat.”
“Your neck already looks like a boiled lobster,” I pointed out. I scooped up water with my hands, soaking my hair. “See? My hair will protect my neck—it feels cooler anyway.”
Fitz agreed to share the hat. We would each get some protection on our faces and scalps.
We sat on the little balsa, still tied to the tree’s lower branch, our legs dangling in warm brown water, to share a teaspoon of sugar and a smidgeon of dried soup. I glanced at the ingredients on the packet to learn its nutritional value: dehydrated peas, carrots, and dozens of chemicals with unpronounceable names. “Look what’s keeping us going!” I handed it to Fitz.
He read the ingredients and shook his head. “We’ll die from other things long before we have to worry about these chemicals.”
We each took our sugar first. I let the sweetness sit in my mouth to dissolve. The powdered soup was salty, with a bitter aftertaste, and it stuck to the inside of my cheeks.
“Hand me that canteen, will you?” I asked, swirling my dry, gritty tongue around my teeth. Before pushing off, we held hands for a moment, just as we had on the Pink Palace, and gave thanks for our food.
God rapidly was becoming more real. Neither of us presumed he would focus on us. Still, it was comforting to feel there might be a greater being in charge. Perhaps he would take pity on us and get us out of here.
We started up the channel. My muscles, which yesterday had endured more than I had ever thought possible, were now locked in knots. The current lay waiting for us, like an enemy. It was slower at the tree line, but we kept snagging on submerged growth, hardly making headway.
I glanced at the fifteen-foot rope we used as a painter for the small balsa. “Fitz, let’s weight the painter with a stick then throw it over the low limbs so we can pull ourselves along.”
Fitz agreed. “It’s got to be better than just paddling.”
He clung to a bush, holding the raft still, while I reached for a loose piece of wood floating by. Then he knotted the rope around the wood and tossed it toward the closest branch. The raft floated backward, making it difficult to throw the rope effectively.
I clutched brush to help keep the raft stable. Fitz took several attempts to catch the branch. The painter had to loop around the branch twice or it wouldn’t hold. Once it caught, Fitz slowly pulled as I paddled forward.
When we reached the branch, Fitz jiggled the piece of wood free and we started the process again. As we became more adept we slipped backward less. The rope served as a fifth arm, and while throwing it was hard work, pulling and paddling became easier.
Logjams became goals to reach and to pass. We clung to each as we reached it, reining the raft in, in order to catch our breath. A few minutes later we were ready to start off again.
“Ready?” I asked after we’d paused for longer than usual. I lowered my paddle to push off for the next logjam.
Fitz didn’t respond. I turned toward him.
“It’s those damned butts,” he blurted. His breath was coming hard.
I’d never heard this admission before. I laid my paddle across my lap and didn’t mention the cigarettes. They’d be gone soon enough. “You’re in great shape,” I protested. “Look at those pecs. Anyone would be out of breath doing this job.”
“You’re not out of breath.”
“I was breathing hard a minute ago.”
“Let’s go. I’m fine.”
We inched our way slowly upriver until we came to a place where dozens of logs were jumbled together. A few feet of water and debris were caught between many of the logs where the current gathered power, forming a low waterfall. The little raft jolted in the rapid current. We tried to cling to the logs with our fingertips, but the wood was too slippery to grasp.
“Hol, we can’t paddle the balsa through this. We’ll have to drag it over the pilings,” Fitz yelled to me over the sound of the waterfall.
“What if it gets caught on stuff under the water?”
“Then we’ll get in to free it.”
The falls swept hard over the raft’s port side, knocking our hands from their tentative grip; the raft lurched backward.
“Grab the logs!” Fitz cried.
I was thrown upside down into the muddy water. No chance to take a breath. Through the ghostly darkness I twisted around, trying to see which way was up. There was light below me. I scissors kicked toward it. Something hard stopped my head from breaking the surface. My lungs wanted to crack open. Knowing I had only seconds, I swam sideways seeking a place to raise my head. I spluttered to the surface, water up my nose, struggling to catch my breath. The raft was stuck on something near me, so I grabbed it.
Fitz had pulled himself up onto the log pile and was clinging to the raft’s rope and the black bag. He reached for my hand. “I’ve got you, Hol.” His arm around me now pulled me up.
I coughed hard. Water spurted out of my mouth and nose. Fitz slapped my back. I took in a deep breath then began to breathe more evenly. “Thanks,” I wheezed.
The slippery logjam was piled every which way. I tripped, my left leg flying up. Fitz gripped my shoulder. I thought we would both go over, but we clung to each other until we’d righted ourselves.
“Jeez, it’s really frightening under the water.” I wiped my eyes. My legs were shaking. “I didn’t know if I’d make it.”
“Jesus, Hol, I was scared, too.” He kissed my forehead. “It’s good you have nine lives.”
“Don’t jinx me.” I began to tremble all over despite the scorching heat.
Fitz tightened his arms around me and rubbed my back. I looked at him. “Let’s go home, George.”
“I wish,” he said, then smiled. “Say good night, Gracie.”
I was so glad Fitz was with me. I reached up and kissed him, long, to take us somewhere else. A loud crash in the water yanked us back.
“That was big,” Fitz said. We spun around, listening intently, looking in every direction for loglike reptiles, eyes searching for snakes and caimans. We knew they napped on logs. We’d been lucky so far, but how long could our luck hold?
“The rainy season isn’t officially over for another month, so we should be safe from caimans right now,” Fitz said. He sounded reassuring, but he really didn’t know any more than I did.
It had been sunny a great deal lately, signaling the rainy season’s end. But there were no guarantees out here. We were going on hearsay, and we’d learned firsthand just how unreliable that could be.
“I don’t see anything. Do you?”
“No.” Fitz sighed. “Shall we bite the bullet and drag the raft over the log pile?”
“It’s safer than paddling up the waterfall. We�
��d pitch over for sure,” I said, apprehensive about falling into the water again.
We hoisted the little raft onto the wide logjam at the edge of the falls and dragged it up, stumbling over and around logs that were half underwater. Near the top of the logjam the raft tipped and caught on something under the channel. We wrenched and pulled but couldn’t dislodge it.
“We’ll have to go in to see,” Fitz said. Resigned, we forced ourselves into the raging cascade, no time to worry about going under.
Blinded by water rushing against my face, I felt for the little raft. Finding it, I yanked it with one hand while holding part of the logjam with my other. Fitz and I banged and tugged. The little raft broke free. We clambered onto the logjam again along with the little raft, and continued hauling it to the top, repeatedly falling on slimy logs. It would have been easy to twist an ankle, or cut ourselves, but we were fortunate.
Past the waterfall and at the end of the logjam, Fitz and I pushed the raft back into the open water, climbed onto it, and started out for the next bend. The channel narrowed to just a hundred feet wide in places. We paddled forward, passing marshes, the endless jungle stretching out behind them. In other places, we tried to stick close under the submerged trees for security. The current was stronger with every stroke.
Overhead, dark clouds swallowed the sun, blackening the sky. The channel became furious now, kicking up small waves. Birds cawed and fled into the canopy. The clouds’ bellies burst, releasing a pelting downpour that slashed against our skin. I threw my arm over my head.
“Ow! I guess it is still the rainy season.”
Relentless, flat sheets of vertical and diagonal rain fell for hours. Black raindrops peppered us like BBs without mercy. I felt so angry I wanted to cry. Our meager fuel from powdered soup and sugar was long gone, but still we bent to the paddles and fought like hell. We were half sinking on the little raft, our legs and hips in the water, waves whipping us as pails of pellets fell and fell. I can’t, I can’t, I can, I can.
Hope dropped like a barometer. Help us! a small voice inside me cried. I was sobbing silently but had to keep paddling. God help us! I pleaded for strength.
Ruthless River Page 13