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chapter 39
Clouds covered the sky for the rest of the afternoon, and it was only when darkness closed in that I realized the sun had set. I went to look for Cuauhtémoc and found him still perched in the thorn bush above the grave. That's where he'd been all this time, apparently mourning the death of the white bird.
"Perhaps you'd care to join us at the campfire?" I said.
He hopped down and together we walked back to our campsite. It was the place MacClayne had used the night before. We ringed it with a circle of stones, and soon had a small fire blazing nicely. There was a driftwood log against which we could lean back and stretch our legs comfortably. Cuauhtémoc found himself a place beside me.
No moon or stars were visible. In the darkness beyond us the ocean waves crashed with their unremitting violence; we were far enough up from the surf to avoid the spray, but the roar made conversation difficult.
My thoughts kept drifting back to the white bird. It'd been in our care for only a couple of hours. Nevertheless, its death had darkened our day, and even seemed to have brought the clouds which had hidden the sun and now the stars. As I wrote in my journal I could hardly see if I were writing in a straight line. I wondered if my scribbling were even readable. I held the page up to the fire, and, satisfied that it was at least decipherable, I continued writing.
Perhaps I'd overreacted in blaming Wendy for the death of the bird. It bothered me that I'd hurt her feelings and offended her. But I should have trusted my instincts and never let her touch the bird. I should have found a diplomatic way to refuse.
Maybe it wasn't really her fault, but she did manage somehow to poison everything she touched, including her husband. Poor guy. Would he be drinking incessantly and driving suicidally if it weren't for his relationship with Wendy? Well, there had to be something in her makeup that nurtured his alcoholism. But what had been her effect on the bird that had caused it to expire so suddenly, even though, as MacClayne had said, it was about to die anyway? Had my dream been a warning, a prediction or an amazing coincidence?
The tiny hermit crabs were marching up to investigate our fire as they'd done each night. For a while I watched them. Then I glanced over at MacClayne. The firelight flickered on his face as he sat there gazing out into the darkness, in the direction of the ocean.
I lay down on a patch of soft sand next to the fire, using my backpack for a pillow and my thin jacket as a blanket. Cuauhtémoc cuddled up next to me.
Eventually I dozed off, then woke up with raindrops sprinkling on my face. It didn't last long, but it did leave me slightly damp. I ran my hand over Cuauhtémoc's plumage, but he was reasonably dry. MacClayne was up, putting wood on the fire.
As the night wore on it got a bit chilly. When I lay down again I took two warm rocks from the fire and put them inside my jacket, one under each arm, like hot water bottles. I cradled Cuauhtémoc next to one of the rocks where he snuggled in. But it seemed like I'd barely gotten back to sleep when I woke up shivering and had to put more wood on the fire. I also exchanged the rocks inside my jacket for warm ones fresh out of the fire.
Then came another brief rain shower.
"We're not going to spend another night like this," I promised Cuauhtémoc. He opened a sleepy eye as though to hear what solution I might offer.
"Tomorrow," I said, "we're going to build a lean-to, Robinson Crusoe style."
For a long time I lay there thinking about how I might construct the lean-to and looked forward to daylight when I could begin work. Eventually I fell asleep. When I woke up again it was with the sun shining on my face.
"Buenos días," MacClayne greeted me when I sat up. "¿Cómo amesiste?"
"Malo. Muy malo," I said.
We exchanged comments on the harshness of nature and our primordial ancestors who must've slept like this for about a million years.
"Yes, and they lived to a ripe old age of about thirty-five."
We both laughed.
"So," I said. "Are you still for staying another night or two on this beach?"
He assured me he was.
"Then I'm going to build a lean-to," I said. I told him my plans and invited him to join me in the project.
"The sky is bright and clear," he said. "The rain clouds have blown past. I don't think we need any shelter."
I was inclined to agree with him, but I wanted to do it anyway. Ever since I'd read Daniel Defoe's novel back in the sixth grade, I'd been wanting to visit some tropical shore and build myself a lean-to. It was one of my life-long ambitions.
MacClayne wandered off to explore more of the beach, and I set to work. There were huge amounts of driftwood from which to choose my materials, everything from large tree trunks to tiny sticks.
Scorpions lived in wood, but they didn't seem to like salt, so the driftwood should be free of them. Cuauhtémoc checked each piece anyway, apparently to make sure.
Other than my jackknife, I had no tools, but I didn't need any. I found a strong, slender tree trunk about two meters long. That would serve as my central horizontal beam. To hold it up I found two large forked sticks, one to support each end as posts. I planted these firmly by piling rocks around them. The result was a reasonably sturdy framework, and I leaned branches against one side. These formed a roof at about a forty five degree angle, so that the water would run to the ground. I laid the branches on thickly, and smaller sticks on top of that.
Within a couple hours I was done, and the resulting shelter was large enough for both me and Cuauhtémoc. From the side, my finished lean-to looked like a stack of driftwood, but it was the structure I'd been dreaming of ever since I was a kid. I kept walking around it, proudly admiring my work from all angles. Come what may, I was now prepared.
But not much in the way of rain seemed likely. The sun had been shining brightly all morning. The day wasn't as hot as the one before; it was just comfortably warm, neither too hot nor too cool. A perfect day in paradise it seemed, but now I was hoping it would rain. I pictured how cozy it would be under my lean-to. That's when bad weather becomes enjoyable. The cloudless sky was almost disappointing.
Nevertheless, it had been fun to build, I was proud of it, and MacClayne offered words of praise. "Robinson Crusoe himself couldn't have done better," he said. "We should have a camera here to take a picture."
It was still only mid morning and we had almost a full day ahead of us. We swam in the lagoon, read our books, chatted about the good old days, ate oranges, took another swim, explored more of the beach, and acquired a few coconuts from the nearby grove.
Around three o'clock we went to eat. Having learned on the previous day that the restaurants served meals to the construction workers at two o'clock, we decided that an hour later would be a good time for us. Even in a tropical paradise we found ourselves living by the clock and planning ahead to avoid rush hour traffic.
* * *
The sky had become cloudy by the time we finished eating and returned to the beach, and as evening approached the clouds thickened and the first few raindrops pattered down. I would get to test my lean-to after all. I excused myself and went to bed, leaving MacClayne to suffer it out by the side of the fire.
With Cuauhtémoc next to me, I settled in and listened to the steady pattering of the rain on the tilted driftwood wall beside me. The muffled crashing of the breakers below gave a pleasant background effect which added to the cozy feeling.
The shower soon passed, and for a while I wondered if that was going to be the end of it, but before long it began to rain again, this time more intensely than before. Then there was a lull, till another rain flurry arrived, and it became an all-out downpour.
Although it bothered me that MacClayne was out there exposed to the storm, he'd failed to heed my warning and there was nothing I could do. I lay there, feeling fortunate that I'd built this lean-to, when a huge drop splashed in my face. It was followed by another, and then another. I was getting rained on!
I put Cuauhtémoc next to the wall where he'd be most protected and waited for the rain squall to pass. When the pelting finally ceased, I got out and looked around.
The blazing campfire had been reduced to little more than a glow, and MacClayne was rekindling it. Then I noticed that the smoke was blowing out to sea. Out to sea? I hadn't considered such a possibility. Ocean breezes always come in from the sea--or at least that's what I assumed. So I'd leaned my lean-to in the wrong direction, with the wall between myself and the ocean.
The storm was coming from the land. No doubt it had come all the way across México, putting more snow on Mount Tancítaro and the Needle Peaks on its way here. Now it was rolling down the slopes of the coastal range and right into the open side of my lean-to.
The most rational thing would've been to take the material off the ocean-side of the lean-to, and pile it on the landward side, but I was so proud of my structure that I was reluctant to dismantle any part of it. So instead I ran around in the dark, frantically scrounging the beach for materials to pile on the open windward side. What I found were scraps that I wouldn't have even considered using earlier, nor did I find enough of them. The result was a poor, makeshift job. The local building inspectors would no doubt disapprove.
I finished it quickly, just as the raindrops were again starting to fall. Then I got down on my stomach and slowly crawled in, careful not to knock down my house of sticks. It was nearly as restrictive as a sleeping bag, with only centimeters of crawlspace on either side of me. Very carefully, I turned over and lay on my back, and the bird sat on my chest.
"Remember," I told him, "If you have to crap, you go outside and do it. Got that?"
A patch of light from MacClayne's fire, which he'd managed to get blazing again, entered through a crack in my shelter and danced on the opposite wall.
The rain squall became more intense, even drowning out the roar of the ocean. I heard only the pounding of the rain and the water sloshing down my newly built wall. The patch of dancing firelight waned, then vanished, leaving me in total darkness. But my shelter seemed to be functioning. Then my arm felt wet. My leg too. Of course my discomfort was minor compared to what it would have been, had I not modified my shelter.
"You doing okay?" I said to the bird and ran my hand over his back; he was dry.
As the rain continued to slosh down, a drop fell on my face, then another, and soon it was a trickle. I tried moving slightly to one side, and encountered another dribble of icy water that streamed down my neck. There was no escaping it within the confines of this narrow shelter.
Finally it slacked off. I again heard the surf, and the trickle of water on my face diminished to a steady drip. I tried to ignore it, but it was like trying to sleep with my head under a leaky faucet.
I was at least somewhat dryer than I would have been out in that downpour, but probably not for long. Icy water would soon come pouring into this shelter like through a sieve.
Enough of this! I crawled out. A cold wind was blowing, but it felt good to be out of that awful thing. I'd already put my journal and books in a plastic bag inside my pack. Using the bird's plastic raincoat and some scraps of wood, I hurriedly built a small shelter near the fire for Cuauhtémoc to stay in.
"How's your shelter?" MacClayne said. He was rekindling the fire.
"Not like a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria," I said, and, after tucking Cuauhtémoc into his shelter, I helped gather more fuel for the fire. It was soon blazing again and its warmth felt good. MacClayne was now half sitting, half lying on a log beside the fire. He closed his eyes and said no more.
Moments later the sky opened up and I was instantly soaked. How could tropical rain be so icy cold? I thought of the snow this storm must've put on Mount Tancítaro. MacClayne remained where he was, eyes closed, totally soaked and appearing to be asleep.
The wind was so strong that it blew the smoke almost horizontally out to sea, and, as the rain continued to pour down, I stepped over to stand in the smoke which warmed me as it went through my clothes. It passed well below my face so I didn't choke. I watched a large rock among the hot coals; at first it sizzled defiantly, but soon it was reduced to steaming. The fire itself was dying. Reluctantly, I left the warm smoke for a few seconds and stepped out into the cold darkness for more firewood. I laid it on carefully, in hopes of protecting the flames.
At last the rain slowed to a drizzle, then stopped. The fire began to recover as I carefully added fuel and prodded it back to life. Soon it was burning brightly again, and it warmed my wet clothing.
More violent showers came and went. There seemed to be no end of them. If only morning would come and bring with it a warm, friendly sun to end this cold, miserable night.
During the showers I stood in the warm smoke, and when it passed I sat down on the other side of the fire, sometimes dozing off for a bit. I continued my occasional forays into the darkness for more fuel. The handiest source was my lean-to which I was at first reluctant to use, but I was too miserable to stay sentimental for long. I had to keep the fire going. All during this time, shower after shower, MacClayne never moved.
* * *
I was sitting at the familiar table across from the moldy print of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Water dripped from the ceiling and splashed into buckets which were scattered about the room. Most were nearly brim full, and some were overflowing. Each splash echoed off the concrete walls of this otherwise silent vault.
It was terribly cold and I was shivering. Where was Chayo? I somehow knew she was coming to rescue me from this awful place. Had she been unable to find the way?
"Olaaaffff!" a voice echoed from a passageway--Wendy's voice. I cringed and held my breath. Where could I hide? She called again, this time she sounded nearer.
Now she was sitting beside me, scantily clad as always. "Olaf!" she exclaimed. "I've been looking all over for you. Let's go soak in the Jacuzzi." She laughed, took off her blouse and called to the barmaid. "¡Cerveza!".
The Royal Marines were suddenly there, all staring at Wendy, mouths agape. She was taking off her shorts now, and the barmaid was setting beer on the table. There was a thick layer of foam at the top of the frosted glasses.
Wendy pulled down her panties, then abruptly pulled them up. "You don't get to look!" she said to me teasingly.
"No! Wendy, Please! No!" I said. "My fiancée--"
She dangled her panties in front of my face, then jumped into one of the rainwater buckets, pulling me in with her. The bucket grew to the size of a Jacuzzi, but the water was chillingly cold.
"Not in front of everybody!" I said.
The marines were all crowded around in a semi-circle.
"Yes. In front of everybody!" she said. "That's the most fun!"
Several cloaked figures appeared among the marines. The cloaks of the newcomers were like those of medieval monks with hoods drawn up to cover even their faces. They shouldered their way through the crowd and formed a smaller circle around us. Through the front of a hood I glimpsed a familiar face.
"Chayo!" I gasped.
The booming surf resounded in my ears as I went from dream to waking reality under the starless sky. The campfire beside me was blazing. I was completely soaked and shivering, freezing on one side and burning on the other, but my extreme physical discomfort hardly seemed to matter as the disturbing images of my dream overwhelmed me.
Then I seemed to hear Chayo's voice in my ears. "We'll try it again," she said.
There was a tiny pinpoint of light, like a star in the sky which grew and began to spin like a pinwheel in a fireworks display. As I watched it I was drawn into it and became part of it as it expanded and then split off into dozens of pinwheels which in turn continued to expand and multiply, whirling about at terrifying speed and disintegrating into hundreds of pieces which became thousands, then millions of pinwheels. Soon the entire universe became filled with billions of these spinning pinwheels.
It was absolutely terrifying, infinitely more so than any of those amusement park rides that are created specifically for that purpose. And it hadn't been just one terrifying ride, it was billions of them, all at once.
The whirling ceased. I found myself standing in drifting snow that swirled about my feet. I sensed the snow rather than saw it in this pitch-black darkness. I seemed to be in the middle of an empty plain that extended for thousands of kilometers in every direction.
The next instant everything closed in around me, and now I was in a tiny room. I felt about in the darkness and my hand encountered something round and long, like a broom handle. Yes, it was a broom and I was in a broom closet.
I stepped out into a passageway which led to the concrete chamber with the familiar table by the moldy print of the Virgin of Guadalupe. There was a candle on the table and I gazed into it. The broom was still in my hand.
The barmaid stood at the end of my table. "You look like you need a drink," she said and set a frosty mug of beer in front of me and took away my candle.
"Take my broom," I said. "Let me keep the candle."
"As you wish," she said, and handed me a rifle. It was a bolt action .303 British Enfield.
"Why this?" I said.
"Here's some ammunition," she added and set a cookie jar on the table. It was full of jellybeans.
Over on the other side of the room sat a dozen or so Royal Marines. None of them was drinking. All had rifles or submachine guns which they were loading and checking.
"What's going on?" I asked the barmaid.
"Didn't you hear about it?" she said. "There was woman in here taking all her clothes off. It was to create a diversion. During the commotion a POW escaped. A German."
"A German?"
"Don't worry, he won't get far," she said. "Nobody ever gets out of this place. People may wander in from time to time. But never out."
"I'm not German," I said. "I'm American."
"Then why are you wearing a British uniform?"
"Huh?" Instead of my blue jeans and denim jacket, I was wearing the battledress of His Majesty's Royal Marines.
"You know they'll shoot you as a spy if they catch you in it."
"I-- I-- I'm not the German soldier."
"Don't worry. I won't tell them," she said, putting her hand on my arm reassuringly.
In the passageway stood several figures dressed in monk's cowling, with the hoods drawn to hide their faces. Their presence seemed to be unnoticed by the others in the room. The barmaid was serving coffee to the Marines and laughing as she did so.
The hooded figures were now sitting with me at my table.
"The barmaid knows," I whispered.
One figure turned to the other who nodded; and muttered a few words I didn't catch.
"It's okay. She won't say anything," said the first. It was Chayo's voice. As she spoke, a small hooded figure hopped from her arms and onto the table beside me. Like the others, the figure wore a monk's cowling, though in miniature size. A beak protruded from one end, and plumage from the other.
Chayo and the other hooded figures stood up. I couldn't see the faces of her companions, but I sensed that they were to be our guides.
"Can MacClayne come with us?" I said.
"Which one is he?"
I pointed to the marine who was surreptitiously sipping rum from his coffee cup.
She eyed him sternly for a moment, then took his cup and poured the booze on the floor. "Fall in behind Olaf," she told him. "We're moving out."
We followed the guides into a dark tunnel, walking slowly and carefully. One of the guides took the lead, then Chayo and me, followed by MacClayne with more guides bringing up the rear.
MacClayne asked if we could stop so he could take a piss.
"Okay, but be quick," Chayo said impatiently.
A moment later footsteps were approaching, a squad of soldiers marching in step. I held my breath.
There was a signal from a guide, and Chayo spoke to me: "We need to get moving."
"MacClayne's still not back," I protested.
"We can't wait."
"Maybe he got lost," I said. "Can't we go look for him?"
"No."
Again we were moving through the maze of tunnels, our steps echoing hollowly. At each turn I hoped MacClayne would reappear. I had a sick feeling of having abandoned him.
We continued on, till at last we stepped into the open air of the night with soft earth under our feet. We were out of the tunnel!
We slogged along a muddy trail for what seemed like hours till at last we came to a broad river. The ripples in the current sparkled, reflecting some unseen light. Rafts of ice were floating by.
Chayo and the guides were gone. Except for Cuauhtémoc, I was alone again. It was raining sleet, and the bird and I seemed to be somewhere on the coast of Newfoundland. Out across the river was a single building, and I wondered if it could be the Norse settlement of Vinland. It looked deserted.
I was lying on my back, wet and shivering. Was I still in the dream? For a moment I wasn't sure. The dark sky above me was turning gray; a day was dawning, and I desperately hoped it would bring warmth. I was completely soaked and numb with cold. Cuauhtémoc was huddled next to me, also wet and shivering. He'd left his shelter to be at my side.
MacClayne was still on the other side of the smoldering fire, seemingly unmoved since the middle of the night, and apparently asleep, in spite of the elements. As I collected my senses and began sorting dream stuff from waking reality, I wondered if some other part of MacClayne were still wandering about, lost in those passageways.
I got to my feet stiffly. Cuauhtémoc shook the water from his feathers, then strutted after me as I went to get more firewood from the lean-to. My erstwhile shelter looked pretty skeletal by now, with all the depredations I'd been making to feed the fire. Nevertheless, I told myself that, if I'd faced it in the right direction to start with, it could've served its purpose.
From its remains I retrieved my backpack. It was soaking wet of course, but my books and journal were dry since I'd put them in plastic bags. Then I came upon another item, Sunny Days in the Tropics, which had somehow gotten into the shelter, but not into a protective bag. I took the soggy book, squeezed some water out of it, and wondered if the author had ever been in the tropics, other than to vacation at some expensive tourist hotel in the Yucatan.
Another intense rain squall hit, then passed on. I took my soggy trousers off, but the bitter wind cut into my bare legs. So I put my trousers back on; the wet cloth did at least seem to trap warm air.
MacClayne was awake now. He stood up, stretched his arms and yawned. "Buenos días," he said.
"Buenos días," I replied, feeling a sense of irony as I said those words on this horrible day.
"¿Cómo amaneciste?"
"Muy bien."
"¿Y tu?"
"Bien. Muy bien," I said, and then, switching to English, I suggested that we clear out and head for town.
MacClayne shook his head. "We'd just be sitting there instead of here."
"At least we'd be under a roof. And from there we could catch a ride to Caleta and go stay in a hotel."
"We're in the tropics. The sun will come out in a while. Let's wait," MacClayne said optimistically. He picked up an unopened coconut and began the laborious task of carving through the outer husk with his jackknife.
The day got brighter, but the morning brought no warm sun, just gray sky and more squalls, dumping cloudful after cloudful of frigid water on us.
I continued to work at keeping the fire going and MacClayne toiled over the coconut till at last he got it out of its husk. Then he drilled a hole in it. "Would you like some juice?" he said.
"I'm not thirsty, but thank you anyway," I said. In reality I was very thirsty, but MacClayne deserved every drop of it after having so patiently cut through the thick husk. Anyway, there were oranges. Then I thought of Cuauhtémoc. Was he thirsty? I glanced around, and saw him drinking rainwater that had gotten pooled up in the hollow of a piece of driftwood. The bird was a competent survivor.
"Could you have ever imagined anything like this raw, cold, freezing rain in the tropics!" MacClayne remarked. He was grinning broadly.
"Only on the road to Apatzingán," I said, and we both burst out laughing. We were so miserable that we had to laugh.
A moment later, frigid rain was once again pouring down, keeping us chilled to the bone, and we stood there, still chuckling as we recounted our fantasy of a fabled and forbidden city that could only be reached at the end of a long and arduous journey of hardship, sacrifice and suffering.
"We're suffering now and that means we're doing it right!"
"This is truly the road to Apatzingán!"
"We've found our way!"
"We're doing it right!"
Cuauhtémoc shook off the water, and crowed enthusiastically.
The morning wore on towards noon, and the storm abated somewhat, but the day remained bleak. MacClayne finally agreed that we should pull up stakes and move out. We took our usual route, avoiding the thorn bushes by wading along the edge of the lagoon. The water had risen considerably during the night. Where it had been less than knee deep the day before, it now came up to our waists. But the water was considerably warmer than the air, and we paused to soak in it for a while with all our clothes on, letting the water take away the chill.
We then followed the trail by the creek bed, crossing and recrossing the stream. The normally shallow water was now well above our knees and a current was pulling at us. Several times I slipped and nearly fell.
About half way to town, a shower came, and MacClayne stepped under a tree for shelter. I wondered why he bothered. He was already soaked and couldn't possibly get any wetter, but there he was, pretending to stay dry. Totally irrational, I thought as I stood in the rain, but it occurred to me that we all have our moments of absurdity. This squall was brief and less intense than earlier ones. At long last, the storm seemed to be quieting down.
We reached the bridge and there, despite the storm, the construction crew was at work. "I can't believe they'd work in this weather," I remarked to MacClayne.
"No service today," the woman said when we came to the first restaurant. She showed us her fireplace which had been partly washed away by the rain. It was exactly like the simple stoves of brick and adobe that I had seen in museums.
"But I'll have it fixed soon enough," she added with a cheerful smile.
At the next restaurant, the one where the little blond girl worked, we got a meal. While we were eating, the proprietress exchanged comments on the storm with another woman who came by, each asking the other how well their roofs had held up.
The houses of this village didn't seem built for weather like this. The walls of most were of woven branches, some covered with mud, and the roofs were either of palm frowns or corrugated tarpaper. But these people had probably been building and rebuilding their houses in this manner for generations.
"Thank god for hotels," MacClayne remarked. "Do you think the one in Caleta will really be there?
"Everyone's been saying there is one. Wendy and Jeff were staying in Caleta, and I can't imagine Jeff camping out on any beach."
"I wonder if we're going to run into them again."
"They were going to Acapulco, so I would imagine they've moved on by now," I said. I dug out the map and glanced at it. We were about twenty kilometers to Caleta.
I was about to ask the woman if the buses were running today when Felipe, the crew chief, came by. "Where did you guys spend the night?" he asked, "as if I couldn't guess."
"On the beach. As always," I said with a grin.
He looked at us for a moment, apparently amused at our bedraggled appearance, then chuckled and said, "I'm going to Caleta. You can ride with me if you want."
We followed him to the creek which was spanned by a makeshift plank bridge. The pickup was parked just beyond. We climbed into the open truck bed together with three or four others, Pedro and Javier among them.
The sun peeked through the clouds and shared a tiny bit of its warmth as we set out on a newly paved road which wound its way along the edge of the mountains and occasionally skirted the beach. There were several small creeks, all roiling with muddy water. In one place the road took us up to a height from which we could look down at a creek emptying into the ocean. The mud-red color spread out and formed a crescent in the gray sea.
Bridges were being constructed over some of these arroyitos, but though none was completed, the streams were small enough that we didn't have any difficulty crossing them. Pickup trucks, like the one we rode in, were built for this sort of thing.
The wind was raw, but my waterlogged jacket protected me from the gusts which tore at me as we sped along. Though I wasn't warm, at least I wasn't shivering. The important thing was that we were making good time, and this trip to Caleta was turning out to be amazingly easy--until we rounded a bend and found a broad river, the Río Nexpa, cutting across our road.
Felipe parked high on the bank, and everyone got out of the cab, just standing there, surveying the scene and shaking their heads. From where I stood in the back of the truck, the river looked impassible.
I jumped down from the truck and went to hear what the others thought.
"We're going to have to leave the truck here, wade across, and walk the rest of the way," the crew chief told me. He and the others were taking their shoes and trousers off and rolling them in bundles to carry.
MacClayne frowned. "If they can do it, I suppose we can," he said. He decided to wade in with his trousers on; they were soaking wet anyway.
I did as the others and was going to put my rolled-up trousers in my pack, but I'd left it in the back of the truck and had to go back to get it. Pedro had already stepped into the water, so had a couple of others. "Just go ahead," I said to MacClayne. "I'll catch up."
I ran back up on the bank to where the pickup was parked. I took my pack and stuffed in my trousers. Then my eye fell upon a couple of short planks which were probably there for use if the vehicle got stuck in mud. I grabbed one to carry with as a life raft for the bird, just in case.
By the time I got back down to the shore, the others were some distance ahead of me.
"Hop on!" I said to the bird. "We've got to catch up."
He looked at me uneasily, then at the water.
"Come on. We've done stuff like this before," I said. After some more hesitation, he mounted my shoulder, and we stepped in. I carried the plank under my arm. At first the water was only halfway up my shins; a few steps later it came to my knees, and the current tugged at my legs. Downstream to the right of us were the ocean breakers, but I avoided looking in that direction.
"¿Estás bien?" I said to the bird.
If he felt any uneasiness at this point, he didn't show it.
"Eres muy valiente," I told him.
I concentrated on where I was stepping and hardly looked up, even though I couldn't see the bottom. My progress was painfully slow, and it was about all I could do to keep my footing and not get dragged off my feet. When the water reached my waist, I glanced around. The shore was now well behind me, and it made me apprehensive to be so far from it. Then I looked ahead, towards my companions. They were all turned towards me, waving their arms and shouting, but all I could hear was the crashing of the not-too-distant breakers.
What did they want? They seemed to be waving me back towards the shore we'd come from, but that didn't seem logical. MacClayne too, was waving at me like the others.
I tried to move faster to catch up, but a long stretch of moving water separated me from them. They were pointing upstream. I looked in that direction.
Coming straight at me was a large raft of tree limbs, trunks and other floating debris. I was dead center in the middle of its path, and for a moment I just gaped. It was bearing down upon me and my bird, and it was now too late to turn back. I resumed my forward movement towards the others, going as fast as I could. But the green mass was closing in, and I was moving very slowly.
MacClayne started towards me.
"Stay back!" I shouted to him at the top of my lungs, though I knew he couldn't hear me. He kept approaching. Pedro and Javier were also coming. Didn't they know there was nothing they could do except get caught in that mess themselves?
If the debris had been only logs I could easily have grabbed one and floated off with Cuauhtémoc, but it was a mass of branches that had to include thorn and sticker bushes. If I even got close, I'd risk getting tangled up and dragged out to sea.
I set the plank down on the water. "Man your life raft!" I told the bird. "We'll have to swim for it!"
Without hesitation, he leapt onto the piece of wood with the calm skill of an old boatman who'd spent years on the water. A brave bird, I thought to myself. He spread his wings to keep his balance, and I gave the plank a shove and followed it myself, doing a breaststroke.
I swam for what seemed like a long time, pushing the bird's plank ahead of me and hoping to make shore before the current took us out to sea.
The burly crew chief reached for MacClayne, who evaded him and struggled on towards me.
"Go back!" I tried to shout, but got a mouthful of muddy water.
There wasn't a damn thing MacClayne could've done if he got to me except get himself drowned; he wasn't even much of a swimmer. Pedro and Javier were also moving in our direction. The crew chief caught both of them and held them back.
Not far away was the ocean, and the crashing of the breakers terrified me, but as I struggled to fight back the panic I glanced at Cuauhtémoc in front of me. With legs firmly planted and wings extended, he rode the plank like an old hand, and his example gave me reassurance.
"You're okay now!" came a shout. "You made it!"
It was MacClayne's voice; I glanced around to the left of me and saw him standing in water that was only slightly over knee deep. I stood up too, then grabbed the plank before it could drift off with the bird. The shore was only a short distance away. I looked behind me and saw the mass of trees and branches drifting past.
"I guess we made it, didn't we," I finally gasped to MacClayne, as I clambered onto the shore. He'd risked his life for me, and I wanted to thank him, but I couldn't think of anything appropriate.
Together with the construction workers we walked back up along the shore and then down the road towards Caleta.
"We almost lost you," said Pedro. Javier added that someone had drowned in this very river during the rains of the previous month.
continued in Chapter 40
"Perhaps you'd care to join us at the campfire?" I said.
He hopped down and together we walked back to our campsite. It was the place MacClayne had used the night before. We ringed it with a circle of stones, and soon had a small fire blazing nicely. There was a driftwood log against which we could lean back and stretch our legs comfortably. Cuauhtémoc found himself a place beside me.
No moon or stars were visible. In the darkness beyond us the ocean waves crashed with their unremitting violence; we were far enough up from the surf to avoid the spray, but the roar made conversation difficult.
My thoughts kept drifting back to the white bird. It'd been in our care for only a couple of hours. Nevertheless, its death had darkened our day, and even seemed to have brought the clouds which had hidden the sun and now the stars. As I wrote in my journal I could hardly see if I were writing in a straight line. I wondered if my scribbling were even readable. I held the page up to the fire, and, satisfied that it was at least decipherable, I continued writing.
Perhaps I'd overreacted in blaming Wendy for the death of the bird. It bothered me that I'd hurt her feelings and offended her. But I should have trusted my instincts and never let her touch the bird. I should have found a diplomatic way to refuse.
Maybe it wasn't really her fault, but she did manage somehow to poison everything she touched, including her husband. Poor guy. Would he be drinking incessantly and driving suicidally if it weren't for his relationship with Wendy? Well, there had to be something in her makeup that nurtured his alcoholism. But what had been her effect on the bird that had caused it to expire so suddenly, even though, as MacClayne had said, it was about to die anyway? Had my dream been a warning, a prediction or an amazing coincidence?
The tiny hermit crabs were marching up to investigate our fire as they'd done each night. For a while I watched them. Then I glanced over at MacClayne. The firelight flickered on his face as he sat there gazing out into the darkness, in the direction of the ocean.
I lay down on a patch of soft sand next to the fire, using my backpack for a pillow and my thin jacket as a blanket. Cuauhtémoc cuddled up next to me.
Eventually I dozed off, then woke up with raindrops sprinkling on my face. It didn't last long, but it did leave me slightly damp. I ran my hand over Cuauhtémoc's plumage, but he was reasonably dry. MacClayne was up, putting wood on the fire.
As the night wore on it got a bit chilly. When I lay down again I took two warm rocks from the fire and put them inside my jacket, one under each arm, like hot water bottles. I cradled Cuauhtémoc next to one of the rocks where he snuggled in. But it seemed like I'd barely gotten back to sleep when I woke up shivering and had to put more wood on the fire. I also exchanged the rocks inside my jacket for warm ones fresh out of the fire.
Then came another brief rain shower.
"We're not going to spend another night like this," I promised Cuauhtémoc. He opened a sleepy eye as though to hear what solution I might offer.
"Tomorrow," I said, "we're going to build a lean-to, Robinson Crusoe style."
For a long time I lay there thinking about how I might construct the lean-to and looked forward to daylight when I could begin work. Eventually I fell asleep. When I woke up again it was with the sun shining on my face.
"Buenos días," MacClayne greeted me when I sat up. "¿Cómo amesiste?"
"Malo. Muy malo," I said.
We exchanged comments on the harshness of nature and our primordial ancestors who must've slept like this for about a million years.
"Yes, and they lived to a ripe old age of about thirty-five."
We both laughed.
"So," I said. "Are you still for staying another night or two on this beach?"
He assured me he was.
"Then I'm going to build a lean-to," I said. I told him my plans and invited him to join me in the project.
"The sky is bright and clear," he said. "The rain clouds have blown past. I don't think we need any shelter."
I was inclined to agree with him, but I wanted to do it anyway. Ever since I'd read Daniel Defoe's novel back in the sixth grade, I'd been wanting to visit some tropical shore and build myself a lean-to. It was one of my life-long ambitions.
MacClayne wandered off to explore more of the beach, and I set to work. There were huge amounts of driftwood from which to choose my materials, everything from large tree trunks to tiny sticks.
Scorpions lived in wood, but they didn't seem to like salt, so the driftwood should be free of them. Cuauhtémoc checked each piece anyway, apparently to make sure.
Other than my jackknife, I had no tools, but I didn't need any. I found a strong, slender tree trunk about two meters long. That would serve as my central horizontal beam. To hold it up I found two large forked sticks, one to support each end as posts. I planted these firmly by piling rocks around them. The result was a reasonably sturdy framework, and I leaned branches against one side. These formed a roof at about a forty five degree angle, so that the water would run to the ground. I laid the branches on thickly, and smaller sticks on top of that.
Within a couple hours I was done, and the resulting shelter was large enough for both me and Cuauhtémoc. From the side, my finished lean-to looked like a stack of driftwood, but it was the structure I'd been dreaming of ever since I was a kid. I kept walking around it, proudly admiring my work from all angles. Come what may, I was now prepared.
But not much in the way of rain seemed likely. The sun had been shining brightly all morning. The day wasn't as hot as the one before; it was just comfortably warm, neither too hot nor too cool. A perfect day in paradise it seemed, but now I was hoping it would rain. I pictured how cozy it would be under my lean-to. That's when bad weather becomes enjoyable. The cloudless sky was almost disappointing.
Nevertheless, it had been fun to build, I was proud of it, and MacClayne offered words of praise. "Robinson Crusoe himself couldn't have done better," he said. "We should have a camera here to take a picture."
It was still only mid morning and we had almost a full day ahead of us. We swam in the lagoon, read our books, chatted about the good old days, ate oranges, took another swim, explored more of the beach, and acquired a few coconuts from the nearby grove.
Around three o'clock we went to eat. Having learned on the previous day that the restaurants served meals to the construction workers at two o'clock, we decided that an hour later would be a good time for us. Even in a tropical paradise we found ourselves living by the clock and planning ahead to avoid rush hour traffic.
* * *
The sky had become cloudy by the time we finished eating and returned to the beach, and as evening approached the clouds thickened and the first few raindrops pattered down. I would get to test my lean-to after all. I excused myself and went to bed, leaving MacClayne to suffer it out by the side of the fire.
With Cuauhtémoc next to me, I settled in and listened to the steady pattering of the rain on the tilted driftwood wall beside me. The muffled crashing of the breakers below gave a pleasant background effect which added to the cozy feeling.
The shower soon passed, and for a while I wondered if that was going to be the end of it, but before long it began to rain again, this time more intensely than before. Then there was a lull, till another rain flurry arrived, and it became an all-out downpour.
Although it bothered me that MacClayne was out there exposed to the storm, he'd failed to heed my warning and there was nothing I could do. I lay there, feeling fortunate that I'd built this lean-to, when a huge drop splashed in my face. It was followed by another, and then another. I was getting rained on!
I put Cuauhtémoc next to the wall where he'd be most protected and waited for the rain squall to pass. When the pelting finally ceased, I got out and looked around.
The blazing campfire had been reduced to little more than a glow, and MacClayne was rekindling it. Then I noticed that the smoke was blowing out to sea. Out to sea? I hadn't considered such a possibility. Ocean breezes always come in from the sea--or at least that's what I assumed. So I'd leaned my lean-to in the wrong direction, with the wall between myself and the ocean.
The storm was coming from the land. No doubt it had come all the way across México, putting more snow on Mount Tancítaro and the Needle Peaks on its way here. Now it was rolling down the slopes of the coastal range and right into the open side of my lean-to.
The most rational thing would've been to take the material off the ocean-side of the lean-to, and pile it on the landward side, but I was so proud of my structure that I was reluctant to dismantle any part of it. So instead I ran around in the dark, frantically scrounging the beach for materials to pile on the open windward side. What I found were scraps that I wouldn't have even considered using earlier, nor did I find enough of them. The result was a poor, makeshift job. The local building inspectors would no doubt disapprove.
I finished it quickly, just as the raindrops were again starting to fall. Then I got down on my stomach and slowly crawled in, careful not to knock down my house of sticks. It was nearly as restrictive as a sleeping bag, with only centimeters of crawlspace on either side of me. Very carefully, I turned over and lay on my back, and the bird sat on my chest.
"Remember," I told him, "If you have to crap, you go outside and do it. Got that?"
A patch of light from MacClayne's fire, which he'd managed to get blazing again, entered through a crack in my shelter and danced on the opposite wall.
The rain squall became more intense, even drowning out the roar of the ocean. I heard only the pounding of the rain and the water sloshing down my newly built wall. The patch of dancing firelight waned, then vanished, leaving me in total darkness. But my shelter seemed to be functioning. Then my arm felt wet. My leg too. Of course my discomfort was minor compared to what it would have been, had I not modified my shelter.
"You doing okay?" I said to the bird and ran my hand over his back; he was dry.
As the rain continued to slosh down, a drop fell on my face, then another, and soon it was a trickle. I tried moving slightly to one side, and encountered another dribble of icy water that streamed down my neck. There was no escaping it within the confines of this narrow shelter.
Finally it slacked off. I again heard the surf, and the trickle of water on my face diminished to a steady drip. I tried to ignore it, but it was like trying to sleep with my head under a leaky faucet.
I was at least somewhat dryer than I would have been out in that downpour, but probably not for long. Icy water would soon come pouring into this shelter like through a sieve.
Enough of this! I crawled out. A cold wind was blowing, but it felt good to be out of that awful thing. I'd already put my journal and books in a plastic bag inside my pack. Using the bird's plastic raincoat and some scraps of wood, I hurriedly built a small shelter near the fire for Cuauhtémoc to stay in.
"How's your shelter?" MacClayne said. He was rekindling the fire.
"Not like a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria," I said, and, after tucking Cuauhtémoc into his shelter, I helped gather more fuel for the fire. It was soon blazing again and its warmth felt good. MacClayne was now half sitting, half lying on a log beside the fire. He closed his eyes and said no more.
Moments later the sky opened up and I was instantly soaked. How could tropical rain be so icy cold? I thought of the snow this storm must've put on Mount Tancítaro. MacClayne remained where he was, eyes closed, totally soaked and appearing to be asleep.
The wind was so strong that it blew the smoke almost horizontally out to sea, and, as the rain continued to pour down, I stepped over to stand in the smoke which warmed me as it went through my clothes. It passed well below my face so I didn't choke. I watched a large rock among the hot coals; at first it sizzled defiantly, but soon it was reduced to steaming. The fire itself was dying. Reluctantly, I left the warm smoke for a few seconds and stepped out into the cold darkness for more firewood. I laid it on carefully, in hopes of protecting the flames.
At last the rain slowed to a drizzle, then stopped. The fire began to recover as I carefully added fuel and prodded it back to life. Soon it was burning brightly again, and it warmed my wet clothing.
More violent showers came and went. There seemed to be no end of them. If only morning would come and bring with it a warm, friendly sun to end this cold, miserable night.
During the showers I stood in the warm smoke, and when it passed I sat down on the other side of the fire, sometimes dozing off for a bit. I continued my occasional forays into the darkness for more fuel. The handiest source was my lean-to which I was at first reluctant to use, but I was too miserable to stay sentimental for long. I had to keep the fire going. All during this time, shower after shower, MacClayne never moved.
* * *
I was sitting at the familiar table across from the moldy print of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Water dripped from the ceiling and splashed into buckets which were scattered about the room. Most were nearly brim full, and some were overflowing. Each splash echoed off the concrete walls of this otherwise silent vault.
It was terribly cold and I was shivering. Where was Chayo? I somehow knew she was coming to rescue me from this awful place. Had she been unable to find the way?
"Olaaaffff!" a voice echoed from a passageway--Wendy's voice. I cringed and held my breath. Where could I hide? She called again, this time she sounded nearer.
Now she was sitting beside me, scantily clad as always. "Olaf!" she exclaimed. "I've been looking all over for you. Let's go soak in the Jacuzzi." She laughed, took off her blouse and called to the barmaid. "¡Cerveza!".
The Royal Marines were suddenly there, all staring at Wendy, mouths agape. She was taking off her shorts now, and the barmaid was setting beer on the table. There was a thick layer of foam at the top of the frosted glasses.
Wendy pulled down her panties, then abruptly pulled them up. "You don't get to look!" she said to me teasingly.
"No! Wendy, Please! No!" I said. "My fiancée--"
She dangled her panties in front of my face, then jumped into one of the rainwater buckets, pulling me in with her. The bucket grew to the size of a Jacuzzi, but the water was chillingly cold.
"Not in front of everybody!" I said.
The marines were all crowded around in a semi-circle.
"Yes. In front of everybody!" she said. "That's the most fun!"
Several cloaked figures appeared among the marines. The cloaks of the newcomers were like those of medieval monks with hoods drawn up to cover even their faces. They shouldered their way through the crowd and formed a smaller circle around us. Through the front of a hood I glimpsed a familiar face.
"Chayo!" I gasped.
The booming surf resounded in my ears as I went from dream to waking reality under the starless sky. The campfire beside me was blazing. I was completely soaked and shivering, freezing on one side and burning on the other, but my extreme physical discomfort hardly seemed to matter as the disturbing images of my dream overwhelmed me.
Then I seemed to hear Chayo's voice in my ears. "We'll try it again," she said.
There was a tiny pinpoint of light, like a star in the sky which grew and began to spin like a pinwheel in a fireworks display. As I watched it I was drawn into it and became part of it as it expanded and then split off into dozens of pinwheels which in turn continued to expand and multiply, whirling about at terrifying speed and disintegrating into hundreds of pieces which became thousands, then millions of pinwheels. Soon the entire universe became filled with billions of these spinning pinwheels.
It was absolutely terrifying, infinitely more so than any of those amusement park rides that are created specifically for that purpose. And it hadn't been just one terrifying ride, it was billions of them, all at once.
The whirling ceased. I found myself standing in drifting snow that swirled about my feet. I sensed the snow rather than saw it in this pitch-black darkness. I seemed to be in the middle of an empty plain that extended for thousands of kilometers in every direction.
The next instant everything closed in around me, and now I was in a tiny room. I felt about in the darkness and my hand encountered something round and long, like a broom handle. Yes, it was a broom and I was in a broom closet.
I stepped out into a passageway which led to the concrete chamber with the familiar table by the moldy print of the Virgin of Guadalupe. There was a candle on the table and I gazed into it. The broom was still in my hand.
The barmaid stood at the end of my table. "You look like you need a drink," she said and set a frosty mug of beer in front of me and took away my candle.
"Take my broom," I said. "Let me keep the candle."
"As you wish," she said, and handed me a rifle. It was a bolt action .303 British Enfield.
"Why this?" I said.
"Here's some ammunition," she added and set a cookie jar on the table. It was full of jellybeans.
Over on the other side of the room sat a dozen or so Royal Marines. None of them was drinking. All had rifles or submachine guns which they were loading and checking.
"What's going on?" I asked the barmaid.
"Didn't you hear about it?" she said. "There was woman in here taking all her clothes off. It was to create a diversion. During the commotion a POW escaped. A German."
"A German?"
"Don't worry, he won't get far," she said. "Nobody ever gets out of this place. People may wander in from time to time. But never out."
"I'm not German," I said. "I'm American."
"Then why are you wearing a British uniform?"
"Huh?" Instead of my blue jeans and denim jacket, I was wearing the battledress of His Majesty's Royal Marines.
"You know they'll shoot you as a spy if they catch you in it."
"I-- I-- I'm not the German soldier."
"Don't worry. I won't tell them," she said, putting her hand on my arm reassuringly.
In the passageway stood several figures dressed in monk's cowling, with the hoods drawn to hide their faces. Their presence seemed to be unnoticed by the others in the room. The barmaid was serving coffee to the Marines and laughing as she did so.
The hooded figures were now sitting with me at my table.
"The barmaid knows," I whispered.
One figure turned to the other who nodded; and muttered a few words I didn't catch.
"It's okay. She won't say anything," said the first. It was Chayo's voice. As she spoke, a small hooded figure hopped from her arms and onto the table beside me. Like the others, the figure wore a monk's cowling, though in miniature size. A beak protruded from one end, and plumage from the other.
Chayo and the other hooded figures stood up. I couldn't see the faces of her companions, but I sensed that they were to be our guides.
"Can MacClayne come with us?" I said.
"Which one is he?"
I pointed to the marine who was surreptitiously sipping rum from his coffee cup.
She eyed him sternly for a moment, then took his cup and poured the booze on the floor. "Fall in behind Olaf," she told him. "We're moving out."
We followed the guides into a dark tunnel, walking slowly and carefully. One of the guides took the lead, then Chayo and me, followed by MacClayne with more guides bringing up the rear.
MacClayne asked if we could stop so he could take a piss.
"Okay, but be quick," Chayo said impatiently.
A moment later footsteps were approaching, a squad of soldiers marching in step. I held my breath.
There was a signal from a guide, and Chayo spoke to me: "We need to get moving."
"MacClayne's still not back," I protested.
"We can't wait."
"Maybe he got lost," I said. "Can't we go look for him?"
"No."
Again we were moving through the maze of tunnels, our steps echoing hollowly. At each turn I hoped MacClayne would reappear. I had a sick feeling of having abandoned him.
We continued on, till at last we stepped into the open air of the night with soft earth under our feet. We were out of the tunnel!
We slogged along a muddy trail for what seemed like hours till at last we came to a broad river. The ripples in the current sparkled, reflecting some unseen light. Rafts of ice were floating by.
Chayo and the guides were gone. Except for Cuauhtémoc, I was alone again. It was raining sleet, and the bird and I seemed to be somewhere on the coast of Newfoundland. Out across the river was a single building, and I wondered if it could be the Norse settlement of Vinland. It looked deserted.
I was lying on my back, wet and shivering. Was I still in the dream? For a moment I wasn't sure. The dark sky above me was turning gray; a day was dawning, and I desperately hoped it would bring warmth. I was completely soaked and numb with cold. Cuauhtémoc was huddled next to me, also wet and shivering. He'd left his shelter to be at my side.
MacClayne was still on the other side of the smoldering fire, seemingly unmoved since the middle of the night, and apparently asleep, in spite of the elements. As I collected my senses and began sorting dream stuff from waking reality, I wondered if some other part of MacClayne were still wandering about, lost in those passageways.
I got to my feet stiffly. Cuauhtémoc shook the water from his feathers, then strutted after me as I went to get more firewood from the lean-to. My erstwhile shelter looked pretty skeletal by now, with all the depredations I'd been making to feed the fire. Nevertheless, I told myself that, if I'd faced it in the right direction to start with, it could've served its purpose.
From its remains I retrieved my backpack. It was soaking wet of course, but my books and journal were dry since I'd put them in plastic bags. Then I came upon another item, Sunny Days in the Tropics, which had somehow gotten into the shelter, but not into a protective bag. I took the soggy book, squeezed some water out of it, and wondered if the author had ever been in the tropics, other than to vacation at some expensive tourist hotel in the Yucatan.
Another intense rain squall hit, then passed on. I took my soggy trousers off, but the bitter wind cut into my bare legs. So I put my trousers back on; the wet cloth did at least seem to trap warm air.
MacClayne was awake now. He stood up, stretched his arms and yawned. "Buenos días," he said.
"Buenos días," I replied, feeling a sense of irony as I said those words on this horrible day.
"¿Cómo amaneciste?"
"Muy bien."
"¿Y tu?"
"Bien. Muy bien," I said, and then, switching to English, I suggested that we clear out and head for town.
MacClayne shook his head. "We'd just be sitting there instead of here."
"At least we'd be under a roof. And from there we could catch a ride to Caleta and go stay in a hotel."
"We're in the tropics. The sun will come out in a while. Let's wait," MacClayne said optimistically. He picked up an unopened coconut and began the laborious task of carving through the outer husk with his jackknife.
The day got brighter, but the morning brought no warm sun, just gray sky and more squalls, dumping cloudful after cloudful of frigid water on us.
I continued to work at keeping the fire going and MacClayne toiled over the coconut till at last he got it out of its husk. Then he drilled a hole in it. "Would you like some juice?" he said.
"I'm not thirsty, but thank you anyway," I said. In reality I was very thirsty, but MacClayne deserved every drop of it after having so patiently cut through the thick husk. Anyway, there were oranges. Then I thought of Cuauhtémoc. Was he thirsty? I glanced around, and saw him drinking rainwater that had gotten pooled up in the hollow of a piece of driftwood. The bird was a competent survivor.
"Could you have ever imagined anything like this raw, cold, freezing rain in the tropics!" MacClayne remarked. He was grinning broadly.
"Only on the road to Apatzingán," I said, and we both burst out laughing. We were so miserable that we had to laugh.
A moment later, frigid rain was once again pouring down, keeping us chilled to the bone, and we stood there, still chuckling as we recounted our fantasy of a fabled and forbidden city that could only be reached at the end of a long and arduous journey of hardship, sacrifice and suffering.
"We're suffering now and that means we're doing it right!"
"This is truly the road to Apatzingán!"
"We've found our way!"
"We're doing it right!"
Cuauhtémoc shook off the water, and crowed enthusiastically.
The morning wore on towards noon, and the storm abated somewhat, but the day remained bleak. MacClayne finally agreed that we should pull up stakes and move out. We took our usual route, avoiding the thorn bushes by wading along the edge of the lagoon. The water had risen considerably during the night. Where it had been less than knee deep the day before, it now came up to our waists. But the water was considerably warmer than the air, and we paused to soak in it for a while with all our clothes on, letting the water take away the chill.
We then followed the trail by the creek bed, crossing and recrossing the stream. The normally shallow water was now well above our knees and a current was pulling at us. Several times I slipped and nearly fell.
About half way to town, a shower came, and MacClayne stepped under a tree for shelter. I wondered why he bothered. He was already soaked and couldn't possibly get any wetter, but there he was, pretending to stay dry. Totally irrational, I thought as I stood in the rain, but it occurred to me that we all have our moments of absurdity. This squall was brief and less intense than earlier ones. At long last, the storm seemed to be quieting down.
We reached the bridge and there, despite the storm, the construction crew was at work. "I can't believe they'd work in this weather," I remarked to MacClayne.
"No service today," the woman said when we came to the first restaurant. She showed us her fireplace which had been partly washed away by the rain. It was exactly like the simple stoves of brick and adobe that I had seen in museums.
"But I'll have it fixed soon enough," she added with a cheerful smile.
At the next restaurant, the one where the little blond girl worked, we got a meal. While we were eating, the proprietress exchanged comments on the storm with another woman who came by, each asking the other how well their roofs had held up.
The houses of this village didn't seem built for weather like this. The walls of most were of woven branches, some covered with mud, and the roofs were either of palm frowns or corrugated tarpaper. But these people had probably been building and rebuilding their houses in this manner for generations.
"Thank god for hotels," MacClayne remarked. "Do you think the one in Caleta will really be there?
"Everyone's been saying there is one. Wendy and Jeff were staying in Caleta, and I can't imagine Jeff camping out on any beach."
"I wonder if we're going to run into them again."
"They were going to Acapulco, so I would imagine they've moved on by now," I said. I dug out the map and glanced at it. We were about twenty kilometers to Caleta.
I was about to ask the woman if the buses were running today when Felipe, the crew chief, came by. "Where did you guys spend the night?" he asked, "as if I couldn't guess."
"On the beach. As always," I said with a grin.
He looked at us for a moment, apparently amused at our bedraggled appearance, then chuckled and said, "I'm going to Caleta. You can ride with me if you want."
We followed him to the creek which was spanned by a makeshift plank bridge. The pickup was parked just beyond. We climbed into the open truck bed together with three or four others, Pedro and Javier among them.
The sun peeked through the clouds and shared a tiny bit of its warmth as we set out on a newly paved road which wound its way along the edge of the mountains and occasionally skirted the beach. There were several small creeks, all roiling with muddy water. In one place the road took us up to a height from which we could look down at a creek emptying into the ocean. The mud-red color spread out and formed a crescent in the gray sea.
Bridges were being constructed over some of these arroyitos, but though none was completed, the streams were small enough that we didn't have any difficulty crossing them. Pickup trucks, like the one we rode in, were built for this sort of thing.
The wind was raw, but my waterlogged jacket protected me from the gusts which tore at me as we sped along. Though I wasn't warm, at least I wasn't shivering. The important thing was that we were making good time, and this trip to Caleta was turning out to be amazingly easy--until we rounded a bend and found a broad river, the Río Nexpa, cutting across our road.
Felipe parked high on the bank, and everyone got out of the cab, just standing there, surveying the scene and shaking their heads. From where I stood in the back of the truck, the river looked impassible.
I jumped down from the truck and went to hear what the others thought.
"We're going to have to leave the truck here, wade across, and walk the rest of the way," the crew chief told me. He and the others were taking their shoes and trousers off and rolling them in bundles to carry.
MacClayne frowned. "If they can do it, I suppose we can," he said. He decided to wade in with his trousers on; they were soaking wet anyway.
I did as the others and was going to put my rolled-up trousers in my pack, but I'd left it in the back of the truck and had to go back to get it. Pedro had already stepped into the water, so had a couple of others. "Just go ahead," I said to MacClayne. "I'll catch up."
I ran back up on the bank to where the pickup was parked. I took my pack and stuffed in my trousers. Then my eye fell upon a couple of short planks which were probably there for use if the vehicle got stuck in mud. I grabbed one to carry with as a life raft for the bird, just in case.
By the time I got back down to the shore, the others were some distance ahead of me.
"Hop on!" I said to the bird. "We've got to catch up."
He looked at me uneasily, then at the water.
"Come on. We've done stuff like this before," I said. After some more hesitation, he mounted my shoulder, and we stepped in. I carried the plank under my arm. At first the water was only halfway up my shins; a few steps later it came to my knees, and the current tugged at my legs. Downstream to the right of us were the ocean breakers, but I avoided looking in that direction.
"¿Estás bien?" I said to the bird.
If he felt any uneasiness at this point, he didn't show it.
"Eres muy valiente," I told him.
I concentrated on where I was stepping and hardly looked up, even though I couldn't see the bottom. My progress was painfully slow, and it was about all I could do to keep my footing and not get dragged off my feet. When the water reached my waist, I glanced around. The shore was now well behind me, and it made me apprehensive to be so far from it. Then I looked ahead, towards my companions. They were all turned towards me, waving their arms and shouting, but all I could hear was the crashing of the not-too-distant breakers.
What did they want? They seemed to be waving me back towards the shore we'd come from, but that didn't seem logical. MacClayne too, was waving at me like the others.
I tried to move faster to catch up, but a long stretch of moving water separated me from them. They were pointing upstream. I looked in that direction.
Coming straight at me was a large raft of tree limbs, trunks and other floating debris. I was dead center in the middle of its path, and for a moment I just gaped. It was bearing down upon me and my bird, and it was now too late to turn back. I resumed my forward movement towards the others, going as fast as I could. But the green mass was closing in, and I was moving very slowly.
MacClayne started towards me.
"Stay back!" I shouted to him at the top of my lungs, though I knew he couldn't hear me. He kept approaching. Pedro and Javier were also coming. Didn't they know there was nothing they could do except get caught in that mess themselves?
If the debris had been only logs I could easily have grabbed one and floated off with Cuauhtémoc, but it was a mass of branches that had to include thorn and sticker bushes. If I even got close, I'd risk getting tangled up and dragged out to sea.
I set the plank down on the water. "Man your life raft!" I told the bird. "We'll have to swim for it!"
Without hesitation, he leapt onto the piece of wood with the calm skill of an old boatman who'd spent years on the water. A brave bird, I thought to myself. He spread his wings to keep his balance, and I gave the plank a shove and followed it myself, doing a breaststroke.
I swam for what seemed like a long time, pushing the bird's plank ahead of me and hoping to make shore before the current took us out to sea.
The burly crew chief reached for MacClayne, who evaded him and struggled on towards me.
"Go back!" I tried to shout, but got a mouthful of muddy water.
There wasn't a damn thing MacClayne could've done if he got to me except get himself drowned; he wasn't even much of a swimmer. Pedro and Javier were also moving in our direction. The crew chief caught both of them and held them back.
Not far away was the ocean, and the crashing of the breakers terrified me, but as I struggled to fight back the panic I glanced at Cuauhtémoc in front of me. With legs firmly planted and wings extended, he rode the plank like an old hand, and his example gave me reassurance.
"You're okay now!" came a shout. "You made it!"
It was MacClayne's voice; I glanced around to the left of me and saw him standing in water that was only slightly over knee deep. I stood up too, then grabbed the plank before it could drift off with the bird. The shore was only a short distance away. I looked behind me and saw the mass of trees and branches drifting past.
"I guess we made it, didn't we," I finally gasped to MacClayne, as I clambered onto the shore. He'd risked his life for me, and I wanted to thank him, but I couldn't think of anything appropriate.
Together with the construction workers we walked back up along the shore and then down the road towards Caleta.
"We almost lost you," said Pedro. Javier added that someone had drowned in this very river during the rains of the previous month.
continued in Chapter 40
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