I looked around. No alligators… no snakes. Bull sharks liked to swim up rivers, but they had those cartoon fish to eat if they were after food. Same with piranhas, if some deranged person had smuggled them in-Theo came to mind. I pushed my sleeve up and made some false attempts, then decided If someone’s watching, they’ll think you’ve lost your mind. Just do it.
I did. Plunged my arm deep, but just for a moment. Then checked the path leading to the fallen homestead. I had left Belton there with Carmelo, Carmelo knee-deep in muck searching for bottles in a cistern that did indeed resemble a crypt. Most of the cistern’s roof had fallen in, the whitewash had faded. But a graceful brick arch remained to disprove any thoughts of sloppy work or ignorance.
A competent bricklayer had left his mark on this lonely place.
That meshed with something I’d read in the journal. The entry had motivated me to return to the boat and refresh my memory as well as to test the water. But I couldn’t open my backpack until I was alone, so I had roamed the property enjoying a polite interval of time. Holding Belton’s elbow, I had steadied him while we paced the distance from the chimney to the first fencerow. From the way the earth undulated, he guessed this quarter-acre patch had once been a garden. I asked, “What about salt pans?” Threw it out there in a breezy way to see how this amateur expert reacted.
All he said was, “Salt was hard to come by in those days. But you can’t make salt from a freshwater river.”
Was he right? That was something else I wanted to check privately. My biologist friend and sometimes lover had several types of salinity meters in his lab. But my lips would serve almost as well, as would the knowledge that saltwater is heavier than fresh so it sinks to the bottom.
Again, Capt. Summerlin’s journal had fired my curiosity.
As I moved around the boat, I heard Carmelo yell out a complaint or celebrate a discovery, his voice garbled by distance. Closer, somewhere inland, I heard branches cracking-the clumsy weight of an armadillo or feral hog, I assumed. I pushed my sleeves higher, leaned off the boat, and breached the surface with both hands. Water was cool, a slick, weightless feel, then I tasted it-fresh, but a hint of brine. That was encouraging.
I decided to find out if it was saltier on the bottom.
With my help, Carmelo had tied the boat’s bow to a tree after dropping a stern anchor. I hauled the anchor, sloshed the flukes clean, then opened my backpack in the hopes of finding something useful. Along with the journal, I had things I carry on my own boat in case I break down. There were extra clothes, bug spray, a sewing kit, flares and sunscreen, but nothing that could be used to collect water from the river’s deepest spot.
Finally I chose an empty Coors bottle from the Igloo and used fishing line to clove-hitch it to the yoke of the anchor. I wanted the bottle to sink fast. Air pressure, I hoped, would prevent it from filling until it got to the bottom.
When the bottle was secure, I pushed the boat away from the tree and waited for the line to pull taut. The drop-off was many yards astern. Too far to heave a ten-pound anchor. I realized I’d have to balance myself on the transom and use the engine as a knee brace to add distance when I tossed the thing. That was risky. So, before I went to work, I placed my phone on the console, along with my backpack and the journal, which I’d removed from its watertight bag-and couldn’t help reading a few passages before getting my hands wet.
It was a wise precaution. My first throw, I stepped on the anchor line. The next try, I checked my feet, got a good pendulum motion going, then heaved the anchor hard. Too hard. The engine, instead of supporting my weight, gave way, spinning to the left, and I went overboard. It is possible I hollered “Damn!” just before I hit the water.
But no harm done. I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved blouse, and Nikes, not boat shoes, because I knew we’d be hiking. Fishing guides are used to soggy clothing. I’d also brought a towel. So I was smiling at my clumsiness when I surfaced. I combed hair out of my face and decided to enjoy the situation. It had been hot in the stillness of the homestead’s wreckage and the water was cool. So I sculled toward the middle of the river, seeing mimosa trees, dragonflies, the reflection of a passing egret from a duck’s perspective. Several hard green fruit that resembled apples, too, afloat like golf balls, and a flotilla of seedpods, long and brown. They parted at my approach. I continued on, only my eyes and nose, periscope-like, breaching the surface.
Thankfully, my ears weren’t submerged-which is why the sound of breaking branches caught my attention again. I listened briefly, gauging the size and weight, and decided I’d been wrong about the armadillo or some other small animal. Something big was pushing its way through the brush… not fast, but definitely headed my way.
I swung my legs around and sculled toward the boat, all senses alert. If it was a feral hog, normally no problem. I had once been confronted by a big boar in attack mode, however, and some memories are forever fresh. My real fear was that a large gator had gone inland for some sun and was now plowing its way back to the river for an afternoon meal.
I sculled faster. The temptation was to stretch out and swim hard. In high school-not a pleasant period in my life-my happiest moments were playing clarinet in the band and being on the varsity swim team. Breaststroke was my specialty, but I can flat-out fly doing freestyle, too. Trouble was, if I swam, whatever was approaching might enter the water unseen. I found the prospect unsettling. Better to know what was coming and deal with it.
And that’s exactly what I had to do. Now bushes were moving along the path that led to the old homestead, the heavy snap of branches still clumsy but moving faster and with purpose. Finally I understood: the splash of me hitting the water had traveled through the trees. Something had heard me and was on its way to investigate. I might make it to the boat first, but whatever it was would be right there waiting.
To hell with caution. I swam-long, strong strokes-my clothes a dragging weight, my shoes useless as fins. Then my hands were on the boat’s transom, but my foot somehow snagged the anchor line. I fell back in. Bubbles boiled around my eyes. I was terrified of what might grab me from beneath-the water so black and clear. I resurfaced with a yelp and lunged for the boat again. This time I made it, floundered up over the transom and skidded like a wounded seal.
I was winded but immediately looked up-and there was Belton Matás. He was grinning but had a concerned look on his face. “You should have told me you were going in for a swim. Isn’t there something called the buddy system?” He removed his glasses and squinted. “Are you all right?”
There was no recovering my poise. That had vanished when fear took control. “Oh, Belton, some expert I am. I fell in. Then I thought you were a… I don’t know what I thought. My lord, I almost never scream like that.” I sat up and pulled my blouse away from my chest-still prim and proper despite everything else.
The man said, “I didn’t hear a scream-I assumed you were having fun. In fact, I was going to ask… Well, never mind.”
“Fun?”
“Yes, you made a sort of laughing sound. That’s what I heard anyway.”
“Well… good… Ask me what?”
“Just an idea I had because you were already in the water. And swim beautifully. Are you hurt?”
I got up and took a peek downward to confirm my wheat-colored blouse wasn’t see-through. I still had my shoes, too. “I’m used to bruises from falling over my feet. I was enjoying myself until I heard you coming through the bushes… And after what Carmelo said about the water-”
“Carmelo? He can’t swim, doubt if he even showers. Watch your balance…” Belton stepped aboard and reached for the console to steady himself. I realized he would see the journal sticking out from beneath the towel.