by Peter Rix
Amit stopped wailing again so he could think with his brain.
We need the life jackets and helmets.
We can’t. They’re in the van. Anyway, my dad and my brother and me, we never wear life jackets and helmets in the surf.
Tom brought his face close to Amit’s like his dad did when it was really important.
Take my advice, Amit, he said fiercely. This really is a different one, because there’s no one else. If we wait for my dad, we don’t know how long he’ll be, just like yesterday when he was late. It’s up to us. We have to be like real people now, like my dad says it all the time.
Amit didn’t say anything; he just looked at Tom and at the river, and he didn’t wail or go crazy. Tom climbed into the raft and untied the rope from the bow hold. He looked at the two ends of the rope, one in each hand. He had to make his brain think hard about the raft and the river and the bridge and snakebites and dying. Think really hard, Tom, that’s what his dad would say. Amit had one leg in the raft and one leg still standing on the bank.
I’ll help you in, Tom said, because you’re the patient.
Then the river lifted the raft and swung it around. Amit fell straight into the bottom and grabbed onto Tom. Tom wanted to yell, but he didn’t, because when he stuck his head up over the side of the raft he saw they were already in the middle of the river, turning in a big circle towards the pebble race. The river took Tom and Amit spinning in big circles towards the next bend. Tom looked hard at the water, which was swirling and muddy, not like yesterday.
This is not our river, he thought in his brain. Where has our river gone?
It didn’t even take seconds or minutes before they came to the first drop of the Stairway rapid. The raft was going fast now; the bow dipped and buried itself deep in the water. Headstand! That’s what Russell called it. Water poured in, and Amit screamed, except the scream stayed in his mouth and didn’t come out to make the sound. The rough water threw Tom up high like he was an acrobat person to do a somersault right over the top of Amit’s head, but then the raft crashed back into the water and spun round and round, and Tom only fell out of the air onto the seat. White-water rafters should go over the rapids front first, not sideways, but all Tom could do was hang on as they tipped and surged again in the rapid. He and Amit rolled to the side of the raft, the river lifted them and they raced for the third drop.
This is the biggie! Russell had said. It’s like falling off a house, Tom. You need a perfect line into the chute.
Falling off a house. Cool!
Even Tom’s brain that didn’t work so well had time to think about what Russell said, because the raft got caught in a big breaking wave then got spat out between two boulders. Tom could not see the third drop, but he knew it was there. He scrambled to grab the straps again, like Russell told them yesterday. The raft sped into the alley, smashed into the rock, spun around and around … It’s not going to go over, Tom thought. It’s going to stop now. In the back of the raft, Tom looked past where Amit was hanging on tight, and he could see right down to the bottom of the drop like he was up on a cliff above the surf.
The raft swung around again, and all Tom could see was the rushing white water pushing them into the rapid. Then it swung again, slowly, so Tom saw the banks and the big rocks and then the raft started to float forwards again. It went faster and then very fast and then it tipped down and the raft with Tom and Amit took a giant leap over the drop. Like falling off a house, Russell said, but it felt more like they were flying out into the air. Tom fell onto his face and held onto the straps with all his strength. When the raft tipped down, Amit was thrown down into the bottom of the raft, and he was very scared in his face, but he didn’t scream or go crazy; he just held on tight and stared at Tom.
When the river’s up high, you need to go over fast, Russell had told them, so you can ram through the stopper wave.
Tom and Amit’s raft jumped over the rapid fast, but they did not come through the stopper wave – not all of the raft, only half of the raft. There was lots of water filling up the raft, and Amit was sitting up now and hanging onto the straps. In the back of the raft, Tom was being swamped all over his body by the white water.
Hey, Tom thought, it’s like the waves in the surf. Like my dad taught me how to do it.
But it wasn’t the same as the surf, because this wave didn’t wash past him or push the raft away from the rapid and into the deep water; it stayed in the same place. This wave was like in a dream, like the dreams you have when you’re fast asleep in the dark night and everything in the dream is moving too quickly but everything stays in the same place too. Tom and Amit and the raft had to get to the bridge and the doctor, but they were stuck.
That’s why they call it a stopper wave, Russell had told him yesterday. The wave is pushing you downstream, but the whirlpool underneath is sucking you back into it. It can be good fun, but if it’s too big, watch out.
Tom couldn’t watch out because all of the water was in his eyes, but he did climb up onto his feet. He tried to climb up onto the back of the raft to push them away from the wave, but it was too hard to keep his balance, and when the raft broke free Tom fell off right into the big wave.
Tom tried to yell when he hit the water, but no sound came, and then something pulled on his legs and he was sucked down. He kicked hard to get to the top, fighting for his breath. He broke the surface and saw the trees and sky above him, then the river washed him downstream again into the wave. Tom did his best swimming and nearly broke through into the deep water, and he could see the raft spinning away downstream. He found his voice and yelled to Amit. Don’t go crazy, I’m all right.
Was Amit still there? Everything was happening too quickly, like doing fast forward on the video. Tom was pulled down again and back into the rapid. Russell said it was okay falling into the rapid, but he didn’t say about how strong the water is and how when you are frightened you can’t swim very well and you can’t breathe air into your mouth and your chest hurts. It hurts a lot.
The rising sun had Jim’s shoulders and arms almost dry. Only tears traced the lines of his face and brought the faint taste of salt to his tongue. He lowered his head to the rough sandstone. Solid as a rock. But there was the sound again, way above him on the other side of the river, a low, deep exhalation rising above the falls, louder now, like a lament, mourning the loss of twenty years, asking only that the boy be claimed …
… at the bottom of the swimming pool, he held Tom, their eyes locked, then bent his knees and pushed off hard. They burst free, a shrieking, flailing, two-headed water creature. The splash of their wave washed against the sides of the pool. James, clapping and cheering. Fran, calling them for breakfast. Tom spurting water from his mouth, laughing with his head thrown back. Laughing, laughing.
More, Daddy, please!
But it was impossible, and no chance it could ever change, nothing I could do for him. Right in front of me. Every day.
More, Daddy, more!
It was a moment, there and gone, and yet never gone, still there, still here, feel it now, holding him so tightly he pulled back.
Daddy, you squash me.
He held the boy hard against his chest then hoisted him high above his head, Tom laughing, yelling.
More water under water, Daddy! More, Daddy, more, please.
That moment.
My son.
One moment. And gone. James hauled Tom out of the pool, hoisted him onto his shoulders, Tom waving his arms around like some conquering hero. Their father did not follow them up to the house. He climbed from the pool and lay on the deck staring at the sky …
… he remained on the ledge above the third rapid until he was completely dry, his eyes fixed on the places in the rock where each drop fell. He should get back to help with breakfast. Russell would have them up, Tom driving everyone crazy about how his favourite father would take them down the river. Jim’s eye went back to the rapid, the water suddenly muddied and rising fast, the three drops
joined now, the sounds he’d thought were the wind in fact a water roar from somewhere upstream, the torrent already devouring the lower boulders. It had happened within two minutes. In the surf, the first sign is the horizon disappearing into a grey haze, the black clouds rumbling in from the south, the air suddenly cold on your skin. But this came with no warning, as if just around the bend a floodgate had been opened. No chance for the watch now.
They wouldn’t risk the raft with the river up like that. Jim could get a game of cricket going, give Kaylee and Russell a break. He clambered back up onto the track and walked to his car. The river was quickly hidden from view. He’d had his mobile off to save battery and switched it on now to ring the others, let them know he was on his way back. One signal bar. He would sit here first, though, ring Fran, tell her what he should have years ago. He’d get a number for Andy from directories, too. He saw it clearly now. They would call in on their way down the coast, park in the driveway, knock on the front door. They would do it together.
Andy, this is Tom, my son.
It would be a start. With Fran, too. It was never really Tom who had driven the wedge between them, but he could be the one to bring them back together again. Tom would love that, dragging them into an embrace. Hey, look, everyone. It’s my favourite mum and dad!
The bush was full of noise now, the river, birds, wind in the she-oaks. He hesitated, one hand on the car-door handle, listening, half-expecting the blue-cap to appear from out of the scrub. The message symbol came onto his mobile.
The water wanted to hold Tom down.
Then he heard it so clearly he was sure he must still be in his tent back at the campsite.
Stay calm. Don’t panic. Remember, Tom, that’s the special thing.
His dad’s voice?
Dive down deeper, Tom, then you can swim away, the voice said. You can hold your breath for a very long time if you just don’t panic.
He could not hold onto his breath much longer, but he would not panic. He dived deeper. He had to do it. Deeper.
Tom held his breath. He struck out with his feet and arms to get to the surface. Which way? His arms were very tired. He kicked with his legs that could not run fast but were good for swimming, and he came up long enough to take a big breath that hurt deep down like it did after people said bad things or could not talk to you because Down Syndromes look different and you know your stupid eyes have to cry, and taking the breath in the rapid hurt in his chest like that. And then he was down deep again, right down under water.
Don’t panic.
Deeper.
Hey, my favourite father, now I get it.
It was easier. The pushing on Tom’s chest was not so bad now. He let the water flow into his mouth just like his dad told him; don’t be afraid of the water. The river tasted different to the surf.
Tom was a fish now, a sea creature. Just one big kick would set him free. This was his brave thing now. Now, all the people would believe him about climbing the Harbour Bridge and diving off the rocks and how he could be a hero and not just have a vivid imagination. And how he could be a boyfriend who could do everything. Tom felt it in all of his body and in his brain. For the very first time in all his life since he was born as a baby, he was real.
It would be so great when his dad lifted him home. He’d tell all his family to sit at the kitchen table: his mum, his dad, his brother who loved him. They’d want to hear his story about being clever and brave. It would be his special story to tell everyone. He’d tell his mum how his brain knew about the bridge and the river. He’d tell James about being brave in the water and not to worry, he could make it on his own now. And the best was, yeah, the very best one of all, he’d tell his dad how he remembered the special thing.
It was easy under the water now, just like floating. He opened his eyes to see the curtain of bubbles just ahead of him. Drifting.
Take my advice, Dad. I know about the water too.
Tom kicked hard.
The river let go.
Twenty-One
As floods go, it wasn’t much to get excited about: less than a metre’s rise at the Wassford bridge. Worth the white-water mob making a trip to the valley to test their skills on the Stairway stopper wave, but that was about it. When the phone call first came through to the SES mid-morning Sunday, Frank Styles, the local captain, organised the search with kayaks and rafts from the river and other groups on foot scrambling down from the bush tracks to scour the banks – police rescue, SES volunteers, dozens of folk from the town and the settlement, everyone pitched in. Frank had to consider the possibility, too, that the boys hadn’t even taken the raft. Maybe the group hadn’t properly secured it. What if the boys had seen it swept away, panicked and followed it along the banks? What if they’d just got bored and tried to walk out? Still, if they were on the river …
Around four o’clock that afternoon, the news came through from the base hospital over on the coast that the one with the skull fracture was out of danger. They’d done a good job, Doc Farmer and the people who’d brought him in. The operation to relieve the pressure on his brain had gone well. That kept the spirits up for a while.
As it turned out, it was a walking group who found the Indian boy in the raft, late that afternoon. He’d been washed up on the guesthouse river bend, alive, hardly a bruise or scratch. Almost catatonic when they found him, then he churned through every detail, every rock they’d hit, even the snake that ‘bit’ him.
The python’s a scary bugger first off, Lionel confided to Doc when they’d delivered the boy safely into the ambos’ care. The kid must’ve got a good look – best description I’ve heard.
The mother of the boy who was still missing came in on the afternoon plane – the flight had been fully booked, but the airline had managed to find one seat for her and got the other parents up north the next day. Doc Farmer drove across to the coast to collect her. She spent most of the drive on the mobile to her husband, but the calls kept dropping out every few minutes, just to add to the frustration. The doctor suggested she tell Jim to meet them at the Wassford bridge. He got them back to the town at dusk, and as he eased down to the final approach they found Jim pacing from one side of the bridge to the other.
When Jeremy pulled up, the wife hesitated for a moment, then she leapt from the car and ran, and the two of them were clinging to each other in the middle of the old wooden crossing. Jeremy backed up to park the Volvo. He sat for a few minutes then walked down to them. They were both crying but apart now, Jim bent over the bridge railing, facing the river, his wife standing where she’d first got to him, as if she had no idea where to move to next.
Why don’t we walk up to the guesthouse and drop your bag? Jeremy suggested to her. He put a hand on Jim’s shoulder. Then we can head over to the SES shed and … you know, Frank is optimistic – the captain, I mean. Police rescue, everyone still is …
Mrs Simons at the guesthouse had persuaded a couple of the walkers to double up to make room for the boy’s parents. The wife thanked her and said what a nice room it was, but Jim, wild-eyed and exhausted from searching in the bush, hardly seemed to register what was happening around him.
I suppose there’s no manual, is there? Jeremy said to Lionel later that night. You know, for how you’re supposed to be when something like that hits you. But the way they changed, from seeing them on the bridge just hanging on to each other, and now they’re hardly even talking.
He’d just come from the guesthouse. It had taken all Doc’s powers of persuasion to convince the couple to stay put and not go off on their own search. Mrs Simons had made them a meal, and Jeremy had sat with them.
They didn’t touch it, he told Lionel. I got through a bit just for Mrs Simons’s sake. He took note of his friend’s face. What’s Frank saying?
Frank does a good job organising the crews, Lionel said quietly, but he doesn’t really know the river. Nor the coppers. Doug’s been checking a section where the waters back up into a bit of a wash when the river’s h
igh like this morning. If the boy got out of the main current, he might have kept himself afloat and found a rock or a tree. Doug says there’s a chance, some sort of chance.
The rescue teams held a briefing at ten that night to plan the next day’s search. The SES captain had to remonstrate with the distraught father.
No, Mr Campion, we haven’t given up at all, but I can’t have people in the water in the dark. Too dangerous. We’ll get the kayaks back in at first light. I have two teams with lights working along the banks.
Jim swore and turned away.
If you go back in there by yourself at night, the SES captain said, chances are we’ll have to divert some of the crew tomorrow to look for you.
You will do no such thing! Jim shouted. As of now, you can forget I exist.
I don’t have that option, Mr Campion.
But there was no telling the boy’s father. Not even his wife could calm him down. He charged off into the scrub yelling his son’s name, over and over, too fast, no chance he’d even hear if a reply came back. His wife retreated into a dark corner of the shed, sobbing quietly.
I’d better go with him, Jeremy Farmer said, but Lionel Sharnley held him back, pointing to the figure in a dark cap slipping into the bush.
Leave it to Doug, Lionel said quietly.
It was more than another accident on a river. This group of rafters, who they were, what they were, gave this one drama, news value. The numbers of people swelled through the next day: the other parents, journalists and a couple of TV crews, more volunteers from the coast. On that Monday, a helicopter flew the length of the river, twice, and when it headed off on another call-out, a commercial chopper, rumoured to have been hired by the boy’s father, kept the aerial search going.
The town absorbed the new arrivals without fuss, found beds and food and whatever else the visitors needed. Floods and droughts, car smashes, suicides and football brawls, no two crises were ever quite the same, but Wassford had been through plenty and slipped into the rhythm of this one almost as if they’d been expecting it. Through his six years there, Doc Farmer had seen the locals deal with misfortunes that should have defeated them, and each time it caused him to wonder how he would ever manage to take his leave of these people in their battered old town. His friend, Lionel, was right; Wassford knew how much it took simply to stay put, to survive without expectation, almost without hope.