THE WIND BEGAN TO blow, and blow hard. As much as I wanted to talk to Rio about what had just happened, we had to row and paddle hard to keep from being blown upstream. The clouds were swirling and thickening by the minute. We went to shore at a small beach to put away our sunglasses and pull on our rain gear. I asked Rio what he thought of Carlos, if that’s what the coyote’s name really was. “Spookiest guy I ever met,” Rio said.
Rio suspected, same as me, that it was Carlos who had blackened Diego’s eye and bruised his face. The welts on the boy’s wrist, we figured, were from the man’s belt used as a leash. We could only hope that the coyote would return him to his grandmother.
As it was, we would never know Diego’s fate. It was all part of living on the border, Rio said. Every hour of every day there were desperate people moving through the desert. Most paid dearly to be guided by coyotes, who were quick to abandon them. Crossers were found dead every year. They died of heatstroke and hypothermia, of sickness and starvation. Some who survived, and some who didn’t, had been beaten and abused.
“Maybe we could have taken Diego with us,” I said, “and somehow got him back to his grandmother.”
Rio shook his head emphatically. “That would have meant taking Carlos along, at least as far as San Rosendo Canyon. Having that scumbag in my raft—that would give me the creeps.”
“Carlos should be grateful,” I said with an eye on the weather. “He even has our tent.”
“I only gave it to him on account of Diego.”
“I know, and I’m glad you did.”
“We’ll get by, but we need to be on the hunt for shelter, a rock overhang or something.”
Just then lightning began to fire, and the surrounding mountains rumbled with thunder. Downriver, the wind was blowing up whitecaps. I told Rio it was time to fish out the spray cover for the canoe before we went any farther.
“Looks like you’re going to need it,” he agreed. “A canoe makes a lousy submarine.”
We transferred most of the heavy stuff I was carrying over to the raft, including two of our three five-gallon water jugs. After making sure that the rest of my storage was tied into the thwarts spanning the canoe, we pulled the canoe’s spray cover out of its stuff bag. There were two separate pieces, the larger to cover the front half of the canoe and the smaller to cover the open space behind me. The seat and kneeling area, back of center, remained open to incoming waves, but it was the least likely location to take on water.
It was easy enough to spread the waterproof material over the gunwales, and to run the shock cord around the knobs on the outside of the hull. I made sure I had my bailer, boat sponge, and throw-bag handy. The spare paddle, too.
The clouds grew increasingly dark. Heavy rain wasn’t far off. The question now became . . . wait this out or stay on the river? We had a quick huddle and decided we should put some miles behind us in case this got truly serious.
We were ready for battle, and as we put back on the water, we had one on our hands. Rio had to pull hard against the wind to get into the current. The sky broke open with a deafening thunderclap, and a squall line of low clouds hit us with gusts of wind and sheets of rain. I got off the canoe seat and for the first time on the trip assumed the more stable kneeling position, knees spread wide. I’ve always liked wild weather and it looked like I was going to see some.
The rain kept coming. Another mile downstream, and we were approaching a large island. As always, Rio was out front with the raft, by far more stable than the canoe. It was up to him to pick the best channel for us to take around the island.
As he drifted closer, Rio stood up on his rowing seat to get a better look at his choices. I was guessing he was going to pick the channel around the right side of the island. There was much more water going that direction. Generally, the more water, the fewer rocks you have to dodge.
Rio sat back down and rowed toward the right channel. I followed him in, keeping enough space between us to allow for the faster drift of the canoe. In a tight channel we would have a real problem if I jammed him and he lost the use of an oar.
As I rounded a corner and was able to see farther downstream, I saw Rio beating the river to froth as he tried to avoid a nasty hazard along the shore. The cane there, thick as a bamboo forest, was bending far into the river, right down to the waterline. As hard as Rio was rowing, it didn’t look like he was going to be able to keep the raft from running headlong into it. The current was pulling him full bore into the overhanging cane.
I had to bear down. I would capsize for sure if the current swept me under the cane.
As I paddled toward the ribbon of safe water between the shore of the island and the powerful current surging into the cane, I glanced to the right through the pouring rain. Rio’s raft ran smack into the overhanging wall of cane grass. At the moment his hands flew up to protect his face, he got broomed overboard.
Focus, I told myself. This is bad, really bad.
By now I was passing the raft by. It had been arrested in place, with only its stern showing and no sign of Rio. I failed to catch even a glimpse of his orange life jacket. I could only guess that he was hidden under the cane.
Our best shot, I figured, was for me to get downstream and catch him when he got flushed out. I raced another fifty yards to the foot of the island and paddled into the eddy on the right-hand side. The eddy water rushing upstream allowed me to hold my position below the downstream end of the overhanging cane. Still no Rio.
His straw hat floated by. I reached out and grabbed it.
I held my breath, fearing the worst. Finally, finally, the cane spit him out, just upstream from where I was waiting. His face had taken a thrashing.
My cousin was mighty happy to spot me, and vice versa. No need for the throw-rope. I intercepted him at the head of the eddy. He latched on to the grab-loop on the stern of the canoe and I towed him to the foot of the gravelly island.
Rio crawled out of the water all pumped up, running in place in the pouring rain. Not to keep warm; the river water wasn’t cold and neither was the rain. Just to burn off the excess adrenaline, I figured.
“Bad situation back there,” I said.
“I did it on purpose,” he shot back.
This was too preposterous to be believed. “Oh yeah,” I said, “what for?”
He bared his teeth. “I needed a good flossing, and I got one!”
I had a good laugh, and Rio admitted how embarrassed he was. He said he was “too slow on the draw,” which was true. If he had cocked the raft toward the cane and pulled hard to the left a few seconds earlier, he would have escaped the current.
I asked if he had ever capsized a canoe in overhanging cane. He held up three fingers. I asked if he thought the cane would let the raft go, and he said he figured it would, thanks to the rain. With a little more power behind it, the current would rip it loose.
An hour later, the raft was still in the grasp of the cane. We waited some more, and we lucked out. The rising river tore the raft loose, none the worse for the thrashing but strewn with cane.