A WRECK OF A TIME

By Carolyn Ohl-Johnson

We were in our boat upriver from the La Linda crossing on the Rio Grande. The river had plenty of water, but not too much. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have gone so far upstream. My husband, Hugh, lives to fish. I live to bird. We have both resided in the Big Bend area of Texas for over thirty years and are experienced at both pastimes. Several miles upriver, we motored through rapids that we had done many times before. It's always a little touch and go, but I’ve never felt the least bit afraid.  Then we continued farther upstream and fished for awhile. Hugh must have been concerned about the rapids because he remarked that coming back we would walk the boat around the rapids (apparently a boat behaves worse going with the river's flow). That would mean raising the motor and dragging the boat over a gravel bar covered with a thin layer of water. It would be hard work, but do-able for this little old couple.

I always sit on the bow with my legs dangling over the front. Birding provided just the same expected species. A few Blue-winged Teal flushed as we motored near them, and the usual Spotted Sandpipers worked suitable sandbars. Turkey Vultures patrolled the cloudless sky above. Since it was fall migration, there were occasional warblers ducking into the underbrush along the banks, but from a moving boat, I didn’t expect to be able to ID them. I heard Common Yellowthroats, Canyon Wrens, and located a few Black Phoebes, all year around residents. Once I was almost certain I saw three Ash-throated Flycatchers. It seemed really late in the season for them. Maybe they were migrating through. After a couple of hours, I took off my waterproof binoculars and laid them on the seat beside me (to my later regret). It was just too difficult to bird with the boat in motion.

As we neared the rapids, Hugh circled a couple of times, sizing up the situation. Then, his mind made up, he quickly turned and headed into the channel. Almost immediately, the boat hit a rock, then another, causing it to tilt enough to where water started pouring in. His last words before the wreck were "We're taking on a lot of water. I'm going to try to make it through [the rapids] to shore," where, presumably, we would bail it out.

In hindsight, that remark was academic. We had no option, at that point. I glanced behind me and saw the boat filling at an alarming rate. It apparently wouldn't steer half sunk with water because the next instant I saw a huge boulder directly in front of me, and therefore, directly in front of the boat. In that instant I knew for certain we weren't going to make it through.

Did I grab my precious binoculars? No. Instead, I screamed long and loud to signal to Hugh that a wreck was imminent, just in case he wasn't aware of it. I guess he was, because he actually broke the tiller arm (I hear, a difficult thing to do) trying to steer. My end of the boat, predictably, hung up on the round boulder that had been sticking up out of the water about six inches, and about two feet wide.

It didn't stay beached, but for a second, in the powerful current, because, as his end of the boat shot past me, it pulled the whole boat onto its side, and into the deep water. The expression, "In one fell swoop," comes to mind. Briefly, I floundered and sputtered in the water, trying to locate the flotation device (the cushion I had, seconds before, been sitting on). 

As Hugh climbed out and onto one of the huge boulders that immobilized the boat, his fear was that the force of the water would suddenly cause the boat to flip and pin me under. He yelled for me to get clear of the boat. I, however, didn't see the situation the same way. It looked thoroughly wedged to me, not to mention that being thrust through the remainder of the rapids and into the cauldron below it, without a flotation device, was unthinkable. We didn't have time to debate the issue over the roar of the water.

My number one priority was the cushion. Once I located it, I successfully lunged for it, wondering, for the first time, if that little cushion would actually keep me afloat. Once in possession of the priceless cushion, I turned my mind to salvaging something from the debris. No more than a few seconds could have passed because some of the boat items were still close enough for possible retrieval.

Hurriedly, I let myself be swept downstream, pretty much ignoring my husband’s command to try to grab cane along the bank and get out of the water. As my body sped alongside the wreckage, I instinctively began gathering up what floating items I could. I managed to rescue my backpack that had Hugh’s wallet with $600 in it, not to mention all his credit cards etc. At the time, I had forgotten that it was in there. To me, it was just a case of it being my favorite backpack, and might contain something useful for later. It never crossed my mind that there might not be a "later." As the backpack got heavier with water, I considered letting it go. (Later, when Hugh reminded me what it contained, I was glad I hadn’t.)

Next, I grabbed an oar and a tackle box, but soon had to let go of the tackle box when I realized I couldn't hold everything and still stay on the cushion. I kept tipping off it unless I used at least one hand to keep me on.  I can swim, but not real well, and in a strong current laden with baggage, wearing shoes and clothing (which I would desperately need for walking out later), probably not at all. At any rate, I was not willing to find out.

As I was catapulting downstream, Hugh managed to get a hold of our small ice chest, which floated, and probably helped him, rather than hindered him. We had wrecked along the American side of the river, but since there was a sheer cliff wall on that side, he had to swim across to the Mexican side. I could sense his anxiety that I was still coursing downstream. Finally, having salvaged all I could, I worked my way close enough to an embankment to stop my progression, by grabbing river cane. Hugh was, by then, struggling through the tangle of underbrush that flanks the river. We had to keep calling back and forth in order for him to locate me, as I was hidden from his view by all the cane that separated us.

When he finally got himself positioned above me on the bank, I tossed him the backpack, cushion, and oar. Then we tried to pull me up the steep bank. I grabbed branches to pull myself, as he tugged on me, but my sodden body kept slipping back into the water like a greased pig. Seeing that we couldn't get me up, I finally made my way to a shallower place where he was able to help me out.

Actually, I wanted to float downriver the two miles to the truck, but he demanded we go by foot. He said the boulders, current, and brush would make it too dangerous, but I felt I could have done it just fine. This time I acquiesced to his demands because he didn't have a flotation device to rely on for safety going downriver, and although we didn’t discuss it, I knew we would both have agreed that it was best we stay together. Separating was never an option, so neither of us mentioned it.

The walk out was long and hot, let me assure you. The temperature hovered around 100 degrees. After all, it was mid-summer. But it could have been worse. At least we were both still wearing our big brimmed hats. And we had a small bottle of water in the backpack. The ice chest contained food. If you’re thinking that, as the water oozed out of the backpack, and we had drunk the bottle of water, the pack would get lighter, you would be wrong. That’s because I have a weakness for pretty rocks. It so happened there were some really pretty ones along the way. At first Hugh tried to discourage me. As I lagged behind he cast many an anxious look back to make sure I was still back there somewhere. Finally, we came to an old jeep trail and followed it.

It was another ordeal to get back across the river when we eventually arrived at a point across from where the pickup was parked. At the La Linda bridge, closed since 9/11, is an old road that had once been concreted where trucks used to cross the bed of the river. The water was flowing about two feet deep, with a very strong current, over what was left of the road. We inched our way across, toes pointed upstream.

A little past halfway across, I felt like I no longer had the strength in my legs to resist the current. Had it gotten one speck stronger, I would have been swept downstream. Hugh was already across and trying to come back for me, but I knew I had to make it on my own. I was certain that if I had put the least little pressure on him, we would both have been swept away. He kept coaching me to go slow, slow, slow, keep toes pointed upstream, etc. If I had been swept downstream, I figure I would have gotten a bit bruised on rocks and gravel, but would have been able to get myself ashore fairly quickly. Maybe. It wasn’t a sure thing, by any means. And it never felt so good to reach American soil.

Later he and two guys went back to try to retrieve the boat and/or motor, while I took advantage of the heat to dry out the contents of his wallet. I instructed the men, no less than 3 times, to look for my binoculars, maybe hung on a branch or cane stalk. I hoped since they were waterproof, the nitrogen (or whatever they were filled with) would cause them to float. No need for them to look for my expensive camera. Even if they found it, it would be ruined. Hours later they returned with only the boat’s gas can and battery. They had been unable to dislodge the boat. He told them if they could get it out, it was theirs. We wouldn’t be needing it. Hugh decided he is getting too old to be doing that kind of stuff anymore. For once I had no problem agreeing with him.