I bent my head to my chest, jabbed the paddle into the water, pushed it back wearily, lifted it up again. Over and over I thrust my paddle into the channel on either side of the raft, trying to push away the pain, to make my motions robotic.
We hunkered into porcupine balls, backs to the sky, seeking protection from the furious rain. It was impossible to measure progress. “Try grabbing the slickers while I paddle,” Fitz yelled.
Twisting around to unzip the bag, I glimpsed Fitz’s face, red from the strain of paddling by himself. We were slipping back. I forgot the slickers and grabbed my paddle. We paddled as hard as we could just to stay where we were. Up to now we’d held our own with the river and the jungle. But the storm was too much. The fist of the storm surged sideways. The small raft began twirling like a baton.
“Stop us, stop us!” I pleaded to Fitz as I reached out for anything to grab.
“I can’t!” he yelled as he reached out, too.
We seized a tree submerged in the water and clung by numb fingers to its branches. The storm raged around us as tears flooded my eyes. In seconds, Fitz and I had lost half the distance we’d gained in a day.
“We can’t do this,” Fitz cried. “It’s insanity.”
“I don’t want to give up. What was the point if we go back now?” I yelled through the wind. “We’ll be right back where we started.”
I heard no answer. The wind and rain slapped my face. My fingernails dug into the branch but were slipping, the little raft pulling out from under us like a wild pony. I wouldn’t believe we were beaten. I’d thought that as long as we tried our utmost, we would make it. “What was the point? What was the point?” I choked.
“I don’t know,” Fitz yelled back, his face contorted. “We can’t do this.”
But neither of us let go.
Chapter 19
Little Balsa
Waves smashed over the little balsa, slapping our thighs and stomachs.
“God Almighty!” Fitz yelled.
“We can’t go back! Not after all this!” My hands locked onto the branch like gnarled, swollen fungi. Letting go meant being swept back to the Pink Palace, where slow death awaited us. My arms throbbed; my fingers began to give way. Anticipating the sweet relief of surrender bade me let go.
My parents would never know what had happened to us. I imagined my mother’s beautiful brown eyes, watering and red with grief, my dad’s cheerful blue eyes, puffy behind his glasses. I strained to grab the ends of the bough. I had to hold on, for them.
Scenes of ordinary life flashed through my mind: my dad calling from the ladder for nails to complete the octagonal playhouse (that was never used as a playhouse because my sister and I had grown up); my mom singing cowboy songs on family car trips when the radio stations didn’t come in; that last intimate weekend with our friends and family at the lake before we left on this trip—all of us laughing, playing hearts, talking of who was doing what and going where.
“We can’t give up!” I screamed over the wind. But desire counted for nothing. We didn’t have the power to save ourselves. Clutching the branch, I pressed my eyes against my upper arm, trying to wipe away the tears.
My fingers slipped, my hands releasing against my will. I was thrust into a free fall.
Fitz also let go.
We clenched the little raft with our arms and legs as it took off downriver, unsteady as a new colt. Hurtling into the relentless current, it wouldn’t stop spinning. Rain and wind howled, as if everything in the universe was ganging up on us. I heard a deep moaning inside me as we whirled down the channel: You’ll never get out. You should never have come. We flew by all the landmarks we’d fought so hard to pass: the small waterfall, the logjams, the dead tree, the regal reeds.
I couldn’t swallow or catch my breath. My lungs seemed filled with stones. Succumbing to the force of the water, I couldn’t believe that just a few days ago I’d embraced the joy of the ride, thrilled by the fun of the adventure. Now the river was whisking us back to hell. My mind groped wildly for something solid to cling to. Fitz. He was my stability. “I’m sorry, Fitz,” I yelled, desperate for him to understand that I had never wanted this.
“What?”
“I’m sorry I was so insistent that we take the raft.” I’d wanted to get out of Puerto Maldonado so much that I couldn’t see the danger. My face felt contorted by the rain and my furious tears.
“For God’s sake, Holly, we had to get out of there.”
“I talked you into it,” I choked.
“You didn’t.”
I felt reassured to hear Fitz’s gruff voice, letting me know I shouldn’t condemn myself. We were in this together.
The stench of stale mud and swamp water greeted us as we neared the end of the channel. The Pink Palace came into view, looking ethereal through the sheets of rain, her robin’s egg blue and hot pink plastic walls in clear contrast to the jungle. She was a reminder of our failed escape, yet my heart leapt upon seeing she was still here. We’d abandoned her, but she’d held strong. She was the only solid surface we had to stand on in this endless, flooded swamp.
The rain turned to drizzle, and the sun peeked coyly from behind the heavy clouds. A rainbow appeared as we closed in on the Pink Palace. My thoughts raced from fear to hope. I had to contain myself from leaping at the large raft, throwing us off balance. All I cared about now was collapsing on her uneven floorboards, wrapping the dry sleeping bag around us, and letting the raft rock us into the deepest sleep.
We paddled hard for a few more feet until I could grab her and tie up. Hoisting the black bag onto the logs, we pulled ourselves, like soggy rats, out of the water. I was desperate to lie down. We were still alive. That was good enough for now. I leaned on a tent pole to get my bearings just as a distant humming came from the sky. It was moving toward us, getting louder. I searched the cloud bank over the water.
“Sounds like a plane!” Fitz gasped, struggling to catch his breath. “My God. Look!” He pointed to the western sky where the sun was bursting forth. A small two-propeller plane emerged from the clouds, bathed in a halo of sun. It flew low over the swamp toward us.
“Fitz! Oh, my God.” I wanted to believe that God had guided us back here just so that we could be found.
We frantically waved and shouted together, “Here we are! Here we are!”
The plane flew alongside the swamp but not directly overhead. It occurred to me that the aduana might have radioed Riberalta after all. Why else would a plane be flying so low? We grabbed each other’s hands and raised them high, yelling as loud as we could, “WE’RE OVER HERE! WE’RE OVER HERE!”
As quickly as it had appeared, the plane departed. We watched in silent disbelief as it vanished into the clouds. Then we listened to the drone of the distant engine until we heard no sound at all.
We stood for a long time, waiting, hoping the plane would circle back. The last drops of rain tapped lightly on the tent beside us, accompanied only by the sound of our breathing.
Chapter 20
SOS
I wanted to scream, to crumple and not get up, but I knew that wouldn’t help. Fitz looked numb, his curly hair flattened into corkscrews from the rain. If I lost control he might fall apart, too. We’d been so sure the plane was looking for us. I’d even believed that God had sent us back here because he was sending the plane. So much belief, so much hope, bottomed out. I stood bracing myself against the tent frame, waiting for the plane to return. Fitz looked over the trees, watching also. He didn’t swear once. Not even under his breath.
I needed to keep up my spirits for Fitz, for both of us. If we gave in to despair it wouldn’t be the jungle that killed us; it would be our own despondency. My thoughts began to rally. We can last longer than this. It’s only been four days. “We can’t give up hope,” I told Fitz. “People have survived all kinds of things.”
Fitz’s stunned look gave way to a nod. “True.” He rubbed his neck. “What about that psychoanalyst you always talk about?”
<
br /> “Viktor Frankl?”
“Yeah, him.”
As a student I’d read that Frankl observed how others had endured the concentration camps during World War II by clinging to hope. He’d held on to it himself by longing to see his family again. So did we. Hope could make the difference between life and death. If we held on to it, we at least had a chance. As a therapist I’d helped clients find hope in the smallest places and build on it. Now I needed to do that. Splashes in the water meant fish. We had hooks. We could catch our food! A plane had come today. So why wouldn’t another come tomorrow?
“They’ll find us,” I finally said.
“Tomorrow I’ll make a big SOS sign from that extra pink plastic. When they come back they’ll see it and know that we need help.” Fitz looked at me and smiled.
I reached for his arm. “Huge letters so they can’t miss them.” I could have kissed his feet for the idea, but I hugged him instead.
We entered the tent, pulled off our soggy clothes then dumped them in a pile in a corner. I found a towel in a backpack. As I dried my skin I was grateful for the flat balsa platform, the soft sleeping bag, the dry tent still holding firm. No drips, no leaks, no rips. We stretched our legs straight out for the first time in two days.
“What luxury! A couple of days ago we thought this was roughing it,” I said. “Little did we know that the Pink Palace is a palace.”
Fitz’s eyes were closing, his glasses resting on his nose, but a flicker of a smile crossed his lips. I pointed my toes then pressed my heels forward, stretching out my tense calf and thigh muscles, like a cat. It felt so good to lie down. My stomach yearned for something to eat, but we were down to almost nothing. Sleep first. Tomorrow we would catch a fish. “Are you awake?” I whispered.
“Barely,” he murmured, reaching for my hand.
Turning onto my side I put my arm around his waist. I watched his breathing, his strong nose, the stubble growing longer on his cheeks, his jaw even more prominent than it had been this morning. I marveled at his tenacity. “I love you,” I whispered as I lifted off his glasses and put them carefully to the side of the sleeping bag.
Chapter 21
High Noon
FEBRUARY 23
Fifth day trapped
A bright light expanded out to pale angel wings, reaching for me, like hands from heaven. “No!” I heard myself howl, coming out of sleep. I whimpered, changing positions on the sleeping bag. Every muscle burned from yesterday’s exertion, my empty stomach most of all. We’d better catch a fish today.
Fitz was already making coffee. I raised my head then lay right back down. “Uuugh.”
“What is it?”
“Everything. My head, my stomach.”
“It’s from not eating,” he said. “Coffee will help. I’ll bring you some.”
I told him I would come out; I had to relieve myself anyway. I didn’t want him exerting more energy than he had to.
We didn’t urinate as much as I thought we should despite drinking the treated channel water. We didn’t move our bowels at all; our bodies had nothing to waste. As I raised myself onto one elbow, my stomach cramped. I felt feverish, as if spiders were crawling up and down my back. Before this, the closest I’d ever come to feeling hunger was when dieting in college. The moment I felt hunger pangs I would give in to a burger and fries. Until now, I had no idea of real hunger: the aching, nausea, shaking chills, like a bad flu.
Yesterday, ignoring starvation, I’d used up my adrenaline because we’d had a plan to escape that propelled me forward. Now I couldn’t leave Fitz to fish and make the SOS sign alone. I moved slowly, gradually rising to my feet.
Balancing against the tent frame, I stood shaking. Fitz was standing up to bring me coffee, his pants falling in folds, like draperies around his legs. He’d looped a rope tightly around his waist to hold them up.
“I didn’t hear you get up.”
“You were out cold,” he said. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you.” He walked toward me, watching his feet on the logs and the cup of coffee jiggling in his hand. “My stomach was raging. I had to scrounge up what food we’ve got left. I used the last halazone tablets, but we’ve got the iodine to purify the water.” He’d found the evaporated milk and the end of the powdered soup and sugar in the bag from yesterday.
Reluctantly letting go of the tent frame, I staggered to him. “Let’s have it all.” I leaned in for a kiss.
Fitz embraced me and kissed me softly on the mouth. “Hi.” He looked intently into my eyes then handed me the half-spilled coffee in the tin cup. The coffee stung my hollow stomach.
“Hot, thin soup coming up. I’m going to toss the line out. We’ll catch a fish for lunch.”
Fitz was anticipating a fruitful day. I wished I felt more interested. “What’ll we use for bait?” I asked.
“Algae? What else do we have?”
“Nothing.” I leaned on him to steady myself. “I’m like a drunken sailor.”
“What a pair!” He took my hand and led me to sit by the stove. “The coffee will give you a little zip.”
“Thanks.” I felt like a squeezed lemon, no juice left. “That awful sound came again last night. It really frightened me, Fitz. I thought it would suck us right up.” I drew my head back and downed the last of my coffee. “It only seems to come at dusk and dawn. I wonder, did we pick a bad place to tie up?”
Fitz shook his head. “We didn’t exactly choose this place. I don’t get what the hell that sound is.” He blew on the fire, stirring a tablespoon of pea soup powder into the water. “If it comes again we can move the Pink Palace—if we have the strength.” He glanced at me warily.
“I think we should open the can of milk. I was only saving it because we’re trying to be so cautious,” Fitz said.
“Soup’s fine. I don’t think we should use up our last supply. It’s a security blanket.”
“As I see it, the plane that came yesterday should be back today,” Fitz assured me. “I think they’re looking for us. It’s only a matter of time before we get out of here.”
“You think so?” I didn’t dare hope, afraid to be disappointed again. What was the matter with me? What was happening to my will to live, my belief in Frankl?
“You saw how they circled around? It wasn’t just a plane on a direct flight path,” Fitz said, and swirled his hand in the air. “They were looking for us.”
There’s so much river, with probably hundreds of offshoots, just like this one. We’re a needle in a haystack. I squashed my thoughts before they reached my lips. I couldn’t slap down his optimism. I wanted to feel it, too, but right now I was too weak to feel anything but fear. “I love your outlook,” I told him. “That’s part of what I loved about you from the start.”
“Well, it’s not a pipe dream.” Fitz sounded a little defensive. “I think it makes a lot of sense.”
“Okay. I just need to get my energy back.”
“You’ll feel better when I cook up that fish.” Fitz rose and headed for the tent to find the huge hook and fish line.
I realized that if we were dehydrated, as well as famished, coffee was the wrong thing to drink, although it was a stimulant that might help to motivate us. We had to replenish the fluids that had been sucked from us by yesterday’s tropical sun. But first I needed to lie down before I keeled over.
Fitz buzzed with ambition as I crawled back to the sleeping bag and collapsed, cradling a bottle of water. Please let me feel better so that I can help Fitz, I prayed.
The plastic tent was a sweatbox. I yearned to dip into the swamp but couldn’t move. I heard the fire spit as Fitz put it out, then the coffee cups clinking as he dipped them into the channel. The satiny sleeping bag felt hot against my cheek. My breath was shallow. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine something cold…our wedding day.
DECEMBER 12, 1970
The tent my dad had rented for the reception was close to collapsing under the weight of the falling snow. It was the biggest snowstorm i
n ten years. At 3:00 a.m., long after we’d returned from the rehearsal dinner, my mom, dad, and some friends and I found ourselves banging snow off the tent roof with brooms. It was coming down so hard we couldn’t work fast enough.
Fitz’s friend Nick had hitchhiked in from California and called at midnight from a telephone booth to say, “I’m here! Can you come get me?” I’d never met him. Bejou, my bridesmaid, and I skidded down the long plowed hill in my blue VW bug to fetch him, grateful to have his help.
The flakes swept across the sky and landed, heavy, on everything. The tent’s canvas roof sagged, and the sides leaned in. Nick and Dad waded through knee-deep drifts, lugging two ladders through the howling storm.
They managed to lean the ladders against the tent poles. Then we took turns unsteadily climbing the rungs, brooms in hand, to drag the snow off the roof. Bejou held the ladder for me as I went up. A burst of wind rocked the ladder, pulling it away from the edge of the tent. It slipped sideways and crashed, taking me with it. I fell on my back into the softest mattress of snow I could imagine. After the shock of dropping through the air, I lay cushioned on the deep drift, staring up at the falling crystals, just like I had as a child. Snowflakes on my face were a cooling mist. I tasted them. So cold! Then I moved my arms to make a snow angel, laughing as I pushed them back and forth.
After a chorus of concern, Bejou pulled me up. “You’ll go to any lengths to make this the wedding of the year!” she chided me good humoredly.
We used only one ladder after that, with three people holding it for the brave soul climbing up, and two more holding flashlights. Even so, the swirling storm made it difficult to see anything. The snow was so deep and so heavy it was difficult to remove, but we kept at it.
Fitz was oblivious to our situation because he was spending the night at the new rental cottage in the woods, an hour away. I was glad he was catching up with Chip and Ellen and some of his buddies, whom he hadn’t seen in months.
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