Swimming in the Amazon 
by Ron Van Sweringen


The River Queen was sinking in the swirling brown water of the Amazon. There was no hope for her. Caught in a massive current swollen by heavy rains, she was helpless. Her hull pierced by a sunken log and the failure of her forty-year-old steam engine had sealed her fate.

The captains frantic sounding of the emergency steam whistle seemed useless. Five of us were going to drown. Two missionaries, their nine year old daughter, the captain and myself. Of the lot, the child seemed to me the saddest affair. Innocent and fair haired she clung to her mother's skirt, panic in her eyes.

It was 1945 and I'd drunk myself halfway across the world, running from a fear of war and dying. Now here I was trapped and facing my worst nightmare in a steaming jungle I had hoped would protect me. The conclusion was clear to me, life sucked.

Captain Nick, short for a Greek name that I couldn't begin to pronounce, kept me from getting sliced up in a bar fight one night. The deal was I did whatever Nick needed on the River Queen and in return he fed me, provided a hammock to sleep in and a fifth of cheap scotch whenever we reached a village with a mail drop and trading post. 

For three months the arraignment had worked well, until we picked up the missionaries. I had a bad feeling about them when they boarded. She was probably close to fifty and dried up looking, not that there'd ever been much juice to her anyway, I assumed. Her husband wore a dirty linen suit two sizes too small and a battered Panama hat. He carried a black bible always held over his heart as if for protection. A lot of good it was going to do him now.

The child was as I had described her. I found it difficult to believe she was produced by the linage at her side. I guessed stranger things had happened, but it was hard to imagine how.

The bow line of the River Queen was now less than a foot above water, I figured we did' have much longer. It was then that I noticed him, a lone Indian in a canoe. He was near the river bank and I blinked twice to be sure he was real. "Captain Nick," I shouted, "look!"

All eyes suddenly fixated on the distant stranger. "Oh my God," the preacher said, his voice quivering. A look of disbelief and fear covered his wife's drained face. Captain Nick raised his hands over his eyes to block out the burning sun. He said nothing at first, his lips pursing together in a downward motion. "He'll never make it," he grunted softly, "currents too strong."

It was amazing how quickly the Indian drew closer paddling the canoe out of the rivers main current. We could see him quite clearly now. He was muscular, of medium height and naked except for white and black designs painted on his body and face. Red and yellow feathers crowned his streaming black hair and a bone necklace hung around his neck. 

"He is the chosen one," Captain Nick said, "but he won't make it." I wondered what he meant, but we were all intent on watching him as he began paddling the canoe on the diagonal toward us. He seemed to slice through current little by little, bending low to paddle with great strength. At times the canoe seemed in danger of capsizing still the Indian would not give up. I could not believe his strength and determination.

When he was was within two arms length of the River Queen, Captain Nick threw a rope to him. He caught it handily, wrapping it around his arm and pulling himself toward us. I had not realized how small the canoe was until then. It could obviously not carry more than three people.

Captain Nick swept the frightened child up in his arms and handed her to the Indian. Her mother followed willingly. The preacher surged after them but was pushed back instantly by the captain, "No, he screamed at the horrified man, "only two can go." The Indian released the rope and the canoe raced away in the current. I watched the mother and child disappear huddled together arms around each other.

"I'm glad they made it," I said letting out a sigh of relief.

"He was the chosen one, the strongest man in the village," Captain Nick replied.

"But why did he risk his life for them?"

"Because of the child," he answered. "They're head hunters and children's heads are highly prized."

"My God!" I shouted, "why did you give him the girl, why didn't you shoot the bastard?"

"Because it was their only chance," he answered, "there is a possibility they may be ransomed by the military. Word of white captives travels quickly in the jungle."

The shock of his words stung me as much as the cold water suddenly swirling over my feet. 

He was right, anything beat swimming in the Amazon.