“Come on, everyone! This part of the tent is still laden,” my dad warned. The strain showed on his face, but his voice, normally quiet, was strong. As father of the bride, he bore the responsibility of the wedding and the reception on his shoulders. He’d organized the tent reception at my parents’ home after persuading the rental agent into breaking his “no tents after Thanksgiving” rule and putting one up on what had once served as a small macadam basketball court.
The tent vendor had voiced his doubts. “I’ve never put one up this late in the season, Mr. Conklin. Snow and all.”
“We’ll be fine. It’s rare for it to snow more than an inch or two before Christmas,” my father insisted.
But it was snowing a blizzard.
My dad was sixty but had always seemed ageless. We looked to him to fix things. I inherited his optimism and never doubted that everything would be all right.
When it finally stopped snowing, we paused to examine the mystically silent world around us. Pure and perfectly white, the snow had buried everything. Huge drifts had settled against our modern house, designed by my dad to resemble the glass prow of a ship extending from a Roman courtyard. The snow was piled two feet high along the walls in the courtyard and had also climbed the sides of the tent and hung from the cryptomeria and pine. It was exquisite.
I wished my curly-headed Fitz were here to see this sight. He’d write a poem about it, like his award-winning “One Icicle Tree,” which was published in his college literary magazine. He’d tell the story of our fight to save the tent in the middle of the night.
Fitz was my poet and storyteller. I was so happy knowing I was going to marry him. We’d have stories for a lifetime.
In the morning we woke to a world of sun-glittered wonder scattered across all the fields and trees around us. The upright golden tent gleamed in the new day. Fresh, virgin snow signaling a new beginning.
—
“Why the smile?” Fitz asked, leaning over me.
“I was thinking about the night before we got married,” I replied, reluctant to let go of the memories of frigid air.
“Ha! When your dad planned on a tent in December, I knew I was marrying into an adventurous family.” He chuckled into my collarbone, carefully lying down beside me. “I was a little intimidated by your parents.”
“You were?”
“They’re so nice, even though I didn’t have much of a job back then, not much college even…to court you. What was I thinking?”
“You had confidence! How could they not like you?”
I touched his cheek. We were quiet as I drained the water bottle he handed me. “I feel a little better,” I said. “Maybe I was just dehydrated.”
“That, and not eating. Are you up to seeing how the sign is coming along?”
“Sure.”
Fitz gently pulled me up. “Bring your sewing kit.”
Clutching my box of needles and thread, I made it across the raft to where Fitz had cut out three giant plastic pink letters, SOS, and a six-by-six-foot piece of bright blue plastic for the background. The sight of them renewed my desire to be helpful, giving me the strength I needed to try to sew on the letters.
My fingers shook as I threaded my biggest needle then stabbed it into the plastic. I was too weak to push the needle through it. After cutting small holes with the scissors, I sewed large basting stitches around the edges of the letters, securing them. The logs scraped my shins as I kneeled over the sign. I continually glanced toward the sky, wanting to get the sign finished before the plane came back.
When it was done, I stood up for a better view. The hot pink letters looked cheerful against their blue backdrop. “This has to be visible from the air. Who could miss bright pink in all this green?” I said proudly.
While we waited for the plane to reappear, Fitz fished with the hook he’d baited with algae. I paddled the small raft along the tree line in our little bay, hoping to find something for us to eat besides the fish that were not biting, perhaps some berries, or a frog for better bait. I watched intently for any sign of life, taking slugs from the canteen and sometimes throwing swamp water over my head in an effort to stay cool. Each time a splash erupted nearby or a branch swayed I paddled to it. But by the time I arrived, all signs of life had vanished. I yearned for lemonade and ice cream. Again I thought of the snow.
The afternoon settled into evening without Fitz catching a fish. I’d paddled around for hours but hadn’t found a single berry. We broke down and opened the can of evaporated milk. It was sweet and rich and delicious, the most food we’d had in days, though in no way satiating. We agreed to save the two teaspoons of sugar now that all the milk and soup were gone. For hours our eyes shifted between the sky and the SOS sign. A plane never came.
Chapter 22
Swimming with Becky
FEBRUARY 24
Sixth day trapped
After yesterday’s bad luck we decided to try to escape again. This time we would avoid the current entirely by attempting to go perpendicular to the channel, heading straight through the flooded jungle. We figured this was where the earth would be in the dry season. If we paddled the little balsa far away from the channel, we might finally reach dry land.
Fitz thought he saw a small break in the tree line. Maybe we were close to the Madre but just couldn’t see it. The channel twisted so much that there was no sure way to know how to find the Madre other than by following the dead-end channel all the way back to its source. During the night we had spent tied to the tree, we’d thought we heard the sound of a motorboat coming from the south, so we packed the camera bag with necessities and set off that way. Our load included the very last of our food: two teaspoons of sugar.
We paddled the small raft to the end of the swamp, gliding with the light current. The water grew muddier; each stroke felt like stirring pudding. Mud sucked at the boards each time we raised them. Lifting boughs that hung into the water, we peered through gaps in a wall of gigantic vines, thick as hawsers. The vegetation looked like gnarled, interlocked knuckles. After less than an hour we discovered a face-scratching waterway into the jungle.
The small balsa was no canoe. She continually snagged on underwater brush, her bow bumping against every barrier, seen and unseen. We made little progress into the dizzying forest where darkness enveloped us. Bugs swarmed around our faces and limbs; we grew confused about which direction we were headed. It would be easy to push ourselves in circles. Bitten and bewildered, after hours of trying, we could barely see one another. Once again we surrendered.
Fortunately, we eventually found an opening through the trees to the channel and struggled on in the late afternoon toward the Pink Palace. At last, by glint of starlight, and with a lot of guesswork and tremendous luck, we made it to the raft. We each savored a half teaspoon of sugar, leaving the last teaspoon to split tomorrow.
When we turned in, I lay awake, listening to the jungle howl, trying to recall difficult circumstances in my life through which I had prevailed. Nothing had ever been like this. Not even close. Once I’d hitchhiked from college to the airport, to save a few dollars. I’d done it often with friends, but this time I was alone. An older man, with a huge stomach squashed into his three-piece suit, picked me up at the entrance to the highway. Soon he veered onto a remote country road surrounded by trees, then settled his hand on my knee. I looked for any way out. As we neared a gas station, I managed to reach to the brake with my foot, hitting it hard. The car slowed enough for me to open the passenger door and roll out. The driver took off.
Another time, my friend Jeff and I were walking alongside a bog in a Connecticut field when I stumbled and fell into what looked like grass. The ground gave way slowly, swallowing me. Each attempt to climb out sank me down farther. The more I reached out my arms, or kicked my legs, the deeper I sank into the curdling mud. Within seconds, I was covered to my shoulders, then to my neck.
“Don’t move,” Jeff yelled. “Stay still and you won’t go down farther.”
We were out in the open, with no bushes, no branches. He looked wildly for a stick.
“Your belt,” I called, so grateful Jeff had worn one and that my head was clear enough to notice.
He tossed the buckle end toward me twice before it was close enough for me to grab. As he pulled me to safety I shuddered, wondering if there were other bodies in the bog. Shaking off my thoughts, I curled closer to Fitz and wrote in my budget book journal. “These days have been hard. Perhaps they have made us better people. Hope we’ll have another chance to put our lives to use.”
FEBRUARY 25
Seventh day trapped
I woke with a start and shook Fitz awake, announcing that we had to try again, this time to swim out. We would each take a log for support when we tired or cramped. When the current became too strong, we would go under the brush and pull ourselves along. It was too cumbersome to paddle the little raft, but if we swam maybe we would have a chance to reach the river.
“What else can we do—just sit here and wait to die?”
Fitz didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”
We agreed to leave right after coffee. Since we’d be swimming, we couldn’t take anything but our money belts. In them we crammed our passports, notebook and pen, traveler’s checks, cash, photos, the remaining teaspoon of sugar, malaria pills, and iodine. Fitz would carry the canteen on his belt. We nixed the Panama hat, the rim so wide that we wouldn’t be able to see while swimming.
I put instant coffee in our cups then handed them over to Fitz so he could add the boiling water. Fitz leaned over the port side and drew in the rope that held our little balsa. We pulled nails from the crosspieces and took off a four-foot log for each of us to use as a float.
Swimming made me think of my childhood dog, Becky, an Irish Water Spaniel, bred to swim. “I hope we’ll be as strong as Becky was,” I said.
Slugging the last of his coffee, Fitz nodded. He knew about Becky. You could throw a ball into the water all day and she would always jump in. She never tired. When she submerged herself, her long, curly brown ears floated way out to the sides of her head; her pink open mouth seemed to grin, her long tail wagging high above the water. Becky’s brown corkscrew bangs flopped over her gold-brown eyes as she swam to shore with the retrieved ball and shook water all over us and the picnic blanket. I also wished for her determination so I could conquer my fear of what lay beneath this water.
Fitz doused the fire while I filled the canteen with swamp water and two drops of iodine. Although the tiny iodine bottle was full and should last awhile, we were drinking water continually.
I looked out beyond the Pink Palace to where dew glistened on lush leaves. It was maybe 6:00 a.m.
“Ready.” Fitz closed the tent flap even though we weren’t coming back.
Tightening my money belt around my waist, I stared into the opaque water. We’ve got to swim out of this mess. This was for real, an extended swim against the channel in a final, desperate effort to reach the river. Don’t think about what’s in or under there. Just do it.
I slid into water that was the consistency of liquid velvet, shuddering at what might be around me, and then I swam a few feet away from the Pink Palace. My arm around my log, I turned to face Fitz. “It feels okay. It’s cooler than on the raft.”
Fitz edged into the water. “Not bad.”
The sun was shining, the warm day urging us forward. We held our logs outstretched in front of us and kicked hard. The current increased as we headed upriver, but we were able to move ahead, staying close to each other.
Excited, I was feeling strong, ignoring any frightening thoughts. I mentioned Becky again.
“Holly, don’t talk. You’re going to need every breath you have.”
“I just wanted to tell you something positive.”
“I know. But you’ll just have to think it. We can’t talk and make it.”
Ahead I could see logs thrust into a curve of the swamp amongst the reeds. It was the logjam where we’d rested three days earlier. We stopped there again then pushed on, resting at other spots that we had reached while paddling the little balsa. Passing these landmarks instilled confidence.
Although we were now weaker, we made better headway swimming than we’d done paddling. The current was mild and the breeze was light. I became accustomed to the slimy, swirling things around my legs. I didn’t see or hear anything dangerous. Nature appeared to be on our side, though that could change in an instant. I had to stay alert, but my mind wandered.
“You okay?” Fitz could hardly talk.
“No cramping.” I glanced sideways to see him. “You?”
“Yeah. Thirsty?”
“Always.”
“Let’s find something to hang on to.”
We plowed forward.
“There.” I jutted my chin toward a small logjam up ahead. Clambering onto the logs, we gulped at the canteen.
“Look at the brush along the tree line,” Fitz said when he’d caught his breath. “As long as it’s there let’s stay close to it; the water’s quieter and we can grab on to the branches.”
The sun was with us still, joined by a gentle breeze. Fitz’s blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses that were tied around his head. He looked bronzed and muscular even though he was thin. We’d finished off the canteen so I refilled it then added the iodine. We set out again, keeping close to the brush. The jungle was silent in the hot sun.
Chapter 23
Log Bed
After we’d swum for many hours, the channel was ever stronger. Exhausted, we agreed to stop at the next logjam. After a couple more bends, I sputtered, “Fitz,” pleading for a rest.
“Reeds,” I moaned, adjusting my direction. Fitz swam toward them.
We hung on to the willowy stalks. Clutching them was our respite, the only time we weren’t moving forward or falling back. Even so, my arms ached. This posture was about as restful as hanging on a cross. Fitz raised the canteen to my mouth while he clutched the reeds with his free hand. I did the same for him.
Advancing slowly, we shifted between swimming and pulling ourselves, hand over hand, along the grasses. Whenever I heard a splash I barely turned now. I kept my eyes ahead, my arms reaching in front of me, stroke after stroke, my log beneath my chest.
“There must be an inlet where we can rest,” Fitz said.
The sky turned pink and yellow. We saw nothing but water, reeds, and trees with branches too high to reach.
“Fitz!” I pointed.
A few logs were perhaps twenty yards away. Each rose vertically two to five feet out of the water, like elderly crooked fishermen bowing to the channel. Hot afternoon light bounced off the water between them. Two or three of the vertical logs were long-dead trees with crooks and stubby limbs.
Reaching the logs, Fitz squinted into the muck, hoping to pull out a couple to make our bed.
Treading water, I held on to our safety logs while he dove to determine if any of the vertical logs could be loosened below. He surfaced, raising his thumbs, then rested his arms around one upright log before going under again. It took several attempts for him to yank three logs to the surface. Each was about seven feet long, and one had spiked, hardened roots at its end. We created a kind of logjam between two upright logs, wide enough to support both of us.
“This should be better than sleeping in a tree,” Fitz said.
Although the slimy logs had sharp points protruding at all angles from broken branches, it felt good to stretch out.
It wasn’t long before the sky released torrential rain. We lay curled in fetal positions, shivering on the logs, just inches above the water, fully exposed. Rain poured under the small piece of plastic Fitz had pulled from his pocket and placed over our heads.
“It’s trickling down my neck,” I whimpered.
“Mine, too.”
&nbs
p; I turned my face upward to catch the rain in my mouth. It tasted so clean after the muddy canteen water we’d been drinking. My cold, wet jeans and shirt clung to me. Broken stubs of branches poked at me no matter which way I lay.
“Damn, this is beyond awful,” Fitz moaned.
Unable even to groan, I squeezed his arm in response.
Our knees and shins hung like bait over the channel, so we had to change positions carefully. Moving an inch either way could topple us into the water.
As I peeked into the darkness from the plastic headdress, all I could think of was caimans.
How could I know for sure that they would stay dormant until the rainy season ended?
The rain lessened just enough for mosquitoes to swarm. They hovered over us with their high-pitched, taunting whine, looking for our most tender spots. I slapped at them, but it did no good. They stabbed us, even through our jeans, desperate, like us, for food.
Once they’d found us, the mosquitoes remained even when the rain kicked up again. They were bigger than the mosquitoes back home, and I decided that they would be the last to survive global annihilation. The pests would inherit the earth.
“Are you crying?” Fitz asked.
“Yes. Are you?”
“Yes.”
Lightning struck the water so near us that we felt the roaring smack of thunder immediately after the flash. It struck again and again, turning the sky white. It seemed nothing alive could be more vulnerable than we were—two creatures huddling without shelter, Nature’s force and utter indifference inflicting arbitrary cruelty. I felt like meat on a platter. How could we survive?
What the hell did we know about this jungle? People like us shouldn’t be allowed on the river without a guide. Neither Juan nor the officials had thought we would need one. I wanted to blame them, but the fault was our own ignorance. Had I thought that we could treat the river like a ride at Disneyland?
Ruthless River Page 15