Chapter One
A Legacy of Misfortune
The anticipation of a long-awaited dream on the verge of fruition can blind one to the dangers of the undertaking. While gazing up in awe of the mighty winds that swell the sails of the ships guiding our destiny, we so easily forget to look down to the churning of the sea. Simply put, we can become so blinded by the love of adventure that we cast aside our better judgment and tumble into something far greater and more dangerous than we ever anticipated. To this, I am not immune.
From a reckless and wild spirited teenager to the sensible twenty-two year old that I am now, that dream I had never faded. Instead, it grew with time as I too had grown and with my maturity came determination. Nourished by much less daunting feats that kept the spark of adrenaline alive and the love of adventure warm in my heart. The dream I had never died, and over time had transformed into an obsession. I tried to put it out of my mind, tried to replace it with equally challenging tasks, but in the end nothing else would do. I knew that we had to go back, we had to conquer that island.
Those who know me know that we have faced King’s Island before. Several long years ago, more than I care to count, my father, grandfather, and I braved the journey across that raging river. The Connecticut River is a broad and murky river that crashes through the upper New England states. Creatures of all kinds have been found in those waters, and several other threats lurk unseen. Furiously gushing rapids on the surface are rivaled by the silent sweep of the undertow which has dragged people down to a swift and terrifying demise. In the shallows, the rocks are slick with algae that send unwary treaders crashing down. Camouflaged lamprey with a mouth full of teeth and a lust for blood, slimy eels that coil around human legs and bite with hook-like teeth, leeches that cling on to the flesh and feed, snakes unphased by the water that dart across the surface in a blink. Trees crash down from the riverbanks as the soil shifts and the roots rot away.
It would be an understatement to say that this river is a dangerous fortress protecting the island. But those brave enough to rise to the river’s challenge will find a much more daunting trial ahead. The legacy of misfortune shrouding over the island like a storm cloud. Defecting nations looking for a land to rule before being annihilated by the US military, a 19th century cult of hundreds of people awaiting the end of the world before losing faith in their insane leader, ruined farmers who abandoned the land and their homes, and lost adventurers who all fell prey to the misfortune of the island and all who inhabit it. To this, also, we are not immune.
For now, the island rests in lonesome abandonment guarded by the treacherous river. Only a few daring souls risk the high rocky cliffs and raging rapids for a chance to view the lush plateau above. The challenge of the journey combined by the draw of the ominous history had destined us to return to conquer the island. But years later, on our expedition to finally camp on the forsaken cliffside, the island had decided that our visit had been well overstayed.
Chapter Two
The River
On the morning of July 9th, 2020, after a stop by the local Target to stock up on supplies, we were in the car bound for the boat launch. The cracked asphalt road alongside the river just outside of the small town of Enfield curves into a disheveled parking lot and dips down into the water whose current is lethargic this close to the shore. As the car turned into the crumbling lot, we unloaded the deflated boats, pump, our backpacks stuffed with supplies, and a small grocery bag of provisions. Our supplies consisted of flashlights, lighters, our phones, some rope, two pocket knives, a dual-sided machete, and a spare change of clothes for after we had crossed the river. Our rations consisted of four bottles of water, two bottles of soda, four energy drinks, a package of hotdogs and rolls, a bag of sour cream and onion chips, and the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I had made for our lunches when we were settled. To us, this seemed like more than enough. But we were terribly wrong.
I mustn’t get ahead of myself though. Once the car was unloaded, my mother bid us good luck and left us to ready the rafts. We began at once to inflate them with the pump, the progress was slow but before long they were both inflated and loaded up with our supplies. We kept the bags near to the front of the rafts and planned to cling onto the back with our feet dangling over into the water. We had no oars or way to steer, so we would be relying on our own swimming strength to paddle with our feet against the current. Using a bit of the rope we packed, we tied the length around our waists before fasting a loop to the front of the boat in case we became separated from our rafts or in the event of a capsize.
The river itself was the usual murky grey with nearly 1,000 feet of rushing water between the mainland and the island. The waters in the region can reach up to 130 feet in the deepest areas and as shallow as ankle deep near the shoreline. The deep water is home to the swift and deadly undertow, gargantuan eels as thick as a man’s forearm, and fish as large as a toddler while the shallow water poses just as much of a threat with slippery rocks, nearly invisible discarded fishing line with rusted hooks, and poisonous snakes that lurk on the surface. In a test of man versus nature, or more accurately versus the Island, we embarked in our flimsy rafts into the merciless river that has claimed so many lives before us of adventurers whose spirits will not be tamed by the threat of danger.
The icy cold water was an unwelcoming greeting as we waded through the shallows, guiding our rafts alongside us by ropes. Even through the fog of mud beneath the surface, we could see the darting of tiny fish that cling close to shore in hopes of escaping the larger predators in the deep water. Our feet, protected only by the thin rubbery soles of discounted water shoes, slid haphazardly across the surfaces of the slick rocks as we tensed ourselves to focus on our footing. It wasn’t long before the water had reached our knees and was growing deeper with each step further. In no time, I could no longer touch the bottom beneath the water and was forced to cling to the stern of my little raft as I kicked my feet to steer toward the opposite shore of the island. Despite the thrashing of my kicks that sent sprays of water splattering in all directions, I drifted quickly downriver out of control. Halfway between the island and the mainland rest a few narrow sandbars which are often covered up by the rising tides. But we spotted them and steered for the safety of solid ground to catch our breath. With determination and violent kicking against the rapids, I was able to steer close enough to the sandbar that I could once again touch the ground. Breathless and exhausted, I realized that we were barely halfway to the island. Together we took a short rest, snapping a few photos and checking ourselves for leeches or any other unwanted hitchhikers. For the time being we had avoided them.
When we had regained some of our strength, we shoved our rafts off of the sandbar into the opposite side of the river toward the island. On this side, the water quickly became deep again as the ground plummeted into an abrupt dropoff. Even through the dirty water, we could see the steep ledge down to blackness where unknown horrors lie. I was glad to not be able to see through the water since I didn’t want to know what could be swimming around me. Pushing the ideas out of my mind, I clung onto my raft and kicked my feet with renewed vigor in the direction of the towering red cliffs hanging over the river, protruding overhead from the island like a watchtower. The clusters of trees peered down on us disapprovingly as neared, as though the island itself defied to tamed by mankind. It would show us the same inhospitibility that it had shown the countless others who were forced to flee to keep their lives and sanity. Before the night was through, we would taste the same misfortune met by centuries of adventurers before us.
Chapter Three
Ascending the Plateau
Towing our rafts behind us through the shallow water at the foot of the red cliffs of the island, we found a broad ledge to lift our gear up onto from the water. When our rafts were empty, we hoisted them up from the water and pushed them up onto the ledge as well, turning them over to the darker colored underside which would camouflage them in the thick brush growing atop the ledge. The island’s plateau was still much further up a dangerously steep incline.
Even on the uneven and crumbling slope of loose soil and rocks, some trees had sprouted up at odd angles and their winding roots protruded from the earth to coil around the rocks for stability. Tall wild grass and shrubs also dotted the incline at various intervals. Deciding to make multiple trips for our gear, we took only our supply packs on the first trip, leaving the tent, sleeping bags, and food.
The trek up the steep ledge was strenuous. The soil was loosely packed and easily slipped under our footing. Roots broke away as we clung to them, slender trees began to tip under the weight of our lean, and rocks tumbled down into the water below. By the time we reached the top we were breathless, covered in a clay-like mud, and parched. Gazing around the plateau of the island for the first time in years, I felt a sense of accomplishment combined with some uncertainty about what the rest of the expedition would hold, though I would be lying if I claimed to have any apprehension about charging blindly forward into the unknown. Quite the contrary, I was feeling invincible.
My father led the way as we scoped out the area for a decent campsite. We found a ledge beside one of the protruding cliffs that had an excellent view of the river. Perched between the cliff over the rapids and the mile-long expanse of shadowy forest behind us, there was something thrilling about setting up camp on the doorstep of the unknown.
Three trips from the ledge near the water to the overhanging plateau had all of our equipment transferred to the decided campsite, minus our boats which were tied to the trees by our lead ropes. With the aid of a sturdy branch, I set to work clearing the leaves and branches from the ground so we could set up the tent. My dad began collecting large stones with which we could build a sturdy fire pit. The work was slow and tiring, but I was fueled by my excitement at the prospect of finally camping on the island after years of planning. Eventually, the area had been cleared and I began arranging the stones he had collected into a crude circle before digging out the dirt in the pit with my bare hands. The soil was loose, as though it had never had pressure applied to it, adding to the secluded feeling of the island.
When the pit was built and seemed sturdy enough, we began breaking up sticks and logs to burn. My father and I took turns with the machete for the particularly strong branches, but most of them were easily snapped by lifting one end of the stick and stomping on the center of it to crack it in half. When I say that this is when the first injury of the day took place, you might picture some gruesome accident with the machete. But let me quickly ease your mind by saying that the machete was not involved in this mishap. Instead, while trying to crack a log in half by stomping on it, I made the mistake of stomping directly onto a protruding branch. The stick shattered, sending a fragmented piece of the branch through the sole of my rubber water shoes and into the ball of my right foot. Some of the branches broke off in the wound preventing it from bleeding but causing me to howl in pain before limping to where our supplies were piled on the ground. Slipping off my rubber shoe, I inspected the wound and saw the dark fragment still embedded in my foot. My father offered his aid by attempting to dig out the wound with his pocket knife. This may sound barbaric, but it was the best option we had at our disposal. When the wound was cleaned as best as we could manage, I simply patched the injury with a square of gorilla tape before slipping the shoe back on. Apart from a slight limp caused by resting my weight on the other foot, I decided that I was otherwise perfectly fine to continue breaking up sticks for the fire.
By the time we had a stack of firewood as high as my shoulder it was lunchtime and we were famished. We eagerly dug into the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the plastic containers that I had packed. With them, I drank a bottle of soda while my father drank one of the energy drinks. We both would need the caffeine since there was more work to be done in addition to exploring the island. The jelly from our sandwiches dripped onto our hands and clothes, creating an unpleasant stickiness that drew dirt and pine needles to stick to them. But the food had rejuvenated us. My father set up the tent on the far side of the camp nearest to the cliffs over the water while the fire was nearest to the forest at a safe distance. We hung our supplies from branches in the trees and used the rope to hoist up the bag of food into the air. Glancing around to see that the fireplace was built, the tent was set up, and the supplies were safely stowed, we decided to take a hike to explore the rest of the island. Taking only what we needed with us, water apparently not being something we thought was a necessity, we set off from camp to trek into the untamed forest with utter reckless abandon.
Chapter Four
Exploration
Leaving the relative safety of our campsite, we trekked into the unknown armed only with our pocket knives and camera-phones, whose reception was spotty at best. All of our supplies like food and water were stashed high in the treetops suspended by a rope, and the thought of bringing water with us on our expedition to explore the island occurred to us far too late.
The plateau of the island is populated by densely clustered pine trees which tower high above and drop red-colored pine needles to the forest floor. The bed of red pine needles reflecting the afternoon sun gives the woods a serene rose-colored glow, broken only by the lush green of shrubs and young trees climbing upwards attempting to penetrate the canopy meshed overhead.
Our footsteps were the loudest sound on the island, the only other noises were the rushing of the river and the occasional chirp of birds. Few signs of animal life were evident on the island, despite knowing that deer, bobcats, coyotes, the occasional bear, and smaller creatures like raccoons and opossums are known to live there. The only evidence of their presence are the paw prints left in the mud along the riverbank, where one can only guess where they could be hiding.
As we crossed the mile-long island, we gravitated toward the far western bank where we descended the plateau to walk along the narrow sandy shore. Patches of these beaches can be found around the perimeter of the island but they are far between, narrow, littered with river salvage, and mosquito-ridden. Deer flies linger near the shores, usually to torment animals venturing out from the brush in search of water, but will target humans to bombard with aggressive slamming against the face and neck, and painful bites for no reason other than to be bothersome. Needless to say, we did not linger for long on these sandy beaches. Instead pressing onward by trekking out into the shallow water to continue encompassing the entire perimeter of the island.
Wading through water which ranged from as shallow as our ankles and as deep as our waists, we studied the shores for movement or remnants of life. The island is home to a population of eagles whose wingspan often exceeds five feet. The persistent chirping from the high nests in the trees warned us that the eagles were caring for their young, and the menacing looming of the parents as they soared from tree to tree watching us threatened that we dare not inspect any closer. In a mutual exchange of respect, we left the nests alone and the territorial birds of prey decided to in turn leave us alone. We proceeded with an extra spring to our step until the chirping could no longer be heard.
When I state that the island is a mile long, one might picture a leisurely trek. But let me explain that by walking the perimeter, the walk then becomes a two mile journey to return to our camp. And although a two mile walk on solid ground would hardly be an undertaking, two miles walking through the rapids of a river intent on dragging you downriver are exhausting, in addition to securing each and every step we take on the slippery rocks to prevent us from falling. The task becomes daunting and quickly tiring. We became fatigued, hungry, and most all thirsty. Having brought no water on our exploration with us, we suffered in the heat of the afternoon sun with little protection, with the rays amplified by reflecting off the water’s surface. The cold water provided some refreshment to our bodies, but only mocked our thirst as we looked expectantly to every cliff edge of the island hoping to see our camp on the highest peak. But the camp was still a long way off.
A little more than halfway around the island, we stumbled across a campground which was abandoned but had been set up by a local team of kayakers. Two wooden platforms were built for them to pitch their tents onto, and on a slight hillside a tiny wooden outhouse had been constructed. The outhouse was infested with spiders and flies, and the smell was off putting. I personally felt safer using the restroom in the woods instead of the outhouse, but my dad was happy to find it. At the kayaker’s campsite we found an old fire pit which hadn’t been used in some time, as well as a flimsy green plastic chair which had been outside for quite a while since it was faded from the sun. My dad made note of the chair and suggested that he might be back for it later once we had reached our own campsite since it had been abandoned there and we had brought nothing to sit on.
Trudging onward, tired and dehydrated, we spotted our campsite on the far peak of the highest crest on the island. Relieved, we climbed up the slick crumbling ledge to the peak, muddying our clothes and coating ourselves in pine needles by the time we reached the top. But despite being tired and dirty, we were both happy to chug down a bottle of water each from our reserves.
Reserves which were quickly dwindling.
Chapter Five
Tragic Misstep
After rehydrating ourselves and catching our breaths, we settled at our camp after returning from the hike around the island. Taking turns each climbing down the ledge to the riverside, we cleaned up as best we could and changed into dry clean clothes. The warmth of dry clothes gave some comfort to my sore legs and aching injured foot. Returning to camp, we readied the firepit by adding dried grass and leaves for kindling before using a lighter to start the fire. The surrounding area had been cleared of brush and leaves and we had used the containers from our lunch earlier that morning to hold river water nearby in case of an emergency to extinguish the flames.
Our campfire sparked to life and before long was crackling and giving off enough heat and smoke to keep the mosquitoes away as the afternoon sun was quickly slipping away with the evening. We had broken up plenty of firewood when we had staked the campsite, but I continued to collect twigs and snap branches to contribute to the pile. The smell of the sweet smoke from the burning pine branches was pleasant on the warm breeze. It continued to relax me as we prepared to spend the rest of the evening tending to the fire and preparing our dinner.
But my dad was becoming increasingly annoyed by not having a place to sit. The nearby logs were too rotted to sit on and were infested with termites. There were no sturdy rocks nearby that could be moved, and sitting on the ground was too uncomfortable for him. He had his heart set on going back for the flimsy lawn chair abandoned by the kayakers at their camp a decent trek from there. While he was there, he could also use the outhouse one last time before nightfall.
I promised that I could tend to the fire and watch the camp while he trekked back to the kayaker’s camp if he wanted to, but that he should go now before it started getting dark, knowing it would probably take at least twenty minutes to reach depending on the route he took. Satisfied that I would be able to tend to the fire responsibly, he left in the direction we had recently arrived from in search of the kayaker’s camp for the plastic chair they had left. I watched him leave, knowing he would have plenty of time to get back before the sun started setting, since it was only around three thirty or three forty-five in the afternoon by this point. I’m not sure of the exact time, but it would still be a few hours before sunset, so I wasn’t worried. I knew that he could handle himself.
For a while I poked at the fire with a long stick, stirring the embers and turning over logs. After some time, I got up to snap more sticks to toss into the pit. The fire glowed a deep red and flickering tongues of the flames danced as I tossed the dry branches onto it, causing it to crackle as the sticks dissolved into white ash. When the fire was well fed, I continued piling sticks onto our pile of extra firewood for when night fell and it would no longer be safe to hunt for wood.
When the pile was so tall that it threatened to tip, I decided that we had enough to last the rest of the evening. I then returned to poking at the logs with my stick, turning them over while humming to myself as I waited patiently for my father’s return.
I’m not positive how much time passed as I waited for him to return, but it had been at least forty-five minutes before I heard the distant crunching of leaves. I could hear his footsteps long before I could see him. His pace was slow, and I could hear the dragging and thudding of the lawnchair as he toted it along with him. Glancing up from the fire, I could see his figure moving through the trees with some difficulty. He would lean on the chair as he walked, pick it up to shove it forward, before leaning on it again. I could tell that he was limping, and as he came closer I could see the contortions of pain in his face.
On his trek back to the kayaker’s camp upon reaching the hill leading up to the outhouse, my father had pulled (or torn) his calf muscle. The pain had been nearly immobilizing, but using the plastic lawn chair he had managed to hobble his way back. Thankfully he had walked along the plateau to reach the other campsite instead of walking along the shore as we had done before. But he was limping painfully, staggering with each step, and resorting to hopping on one leg to gain distance.
When he reached our camp, I forced him to sit in the chair and told him not to get up again for a while. I could tell that he was in a lot of pain. The chair was frail and looked as though it could snap apart at any time, but I was thankful he had brought it with him so that he could sit comfortably and move minimally.
We both seemed to be thinking the same thing as he wondered aloud how he was going to climb down the ledge and cross the river to get home tomorrow. I hoped as time went on that he would slowly recover. But the pain only seemed to be getting worse as the sun was quickly slipping across the sky.
Chapter Six
Dinner and Ghost Stories
It was shortly after five o’clock by the time my father had returned and I had tried to make him as comfortable as possible while he nursed his injured calf muscle. The fire was crackling steadily in the heart of our campsite as I continued to toss cracked branches into it. While he sat, my dad cracked open his second energy drink of the day. As unhealthy as this was in the heat and with our exertion, I didn’t argue since the caffeine seemed to help him and the cool drink refreshed him. Even in his fresh clothes, he was sweating from his exertion.
Agreeing that we were both hungry, I unlooped the rope from the tree where our rations were suspended and lowered it down. Retrieving the chilled pack of hotdogs, a bag of hotdog buns, a small bottle of ketchup, and a large bag of sour cream and onion chips that we had brought for our dinner, I raised the bag back up into the air. The bag contained only the poptarts we planned to eat for breakfast before our return home, but I wanted to keep them far from where bugs were crawling among the pine needles on the ground.
Next, I brandished my pocket knife which had been clipped to my shorts and hunted for two long fresh branches. They had to be green so that the fire would not instantly deteriorate them. My dad obediently stayed put in his chair, cutting open the packaging on the hotdogs and readying the buns for when I found a set of proper roasting sticks. With some effort, I chopped two sturdy green branches from a nearby pine sprig barely sprouting up from the underbrush which suited our purpose nicely. My dad cleared the bark from the tips and slightly charred them before we pierced hotdogs onto the branches and held them over the fire. Being an inexperienced camper, my first hotdog was held too close to the flame and caught on fire. It was blackened and charred by the time I extinguished it, but I was happy to eat it nonetheless after dousing it in ketchup. The chips we ate with our hotdogs, sour cream and onion, were incredibly salty but delicious. They left both of us parched, prompting me to drink one of my father’s energy drinks and for him to drink the second bottle of soda. Our drink rations were disappearing much faster than we had anticipated.
When we were full from our dinner, we relaxed contently by the fire. His leg was still in terrible pain which seemed to only be getting worse but we still managed to have pleasant conversation before he proposed the idea of listening to some audio mysteries and scary stories. His phone had better reception at the top of the peak on the island than mine had, so he was able to browse the internet to find a collection of creepy stories. While we listened to these, I continued to add wood to the fire before laying down on part of the tent’s canopy tarp on the ground, staring up through the trees into the darkening sky.
The next three hours or so were spent listening to tales of haunted houses, serial killers, monsters, and murders. Story after story I stared up through the trees into the sky as the night slowly fell. My dad had migrated from the plastic chair to laying down in the tent while I slept under the night sky beside the fire. I continued to tend to the flame, tossing in wood and stirring the ashes while we enjoyed the campfire stories.
But while listening to the radio dramas after dinner, dad and I both drank the last of our two waters. All that remained was a single energy drink. The night air was humid and stifling, and the smoke from the fire seemed to parch us even more. Once to fight off the discomfort of my thirst, I opened the small cooler we had brought with us and drank a bit of the water from the melted ice, but by then the dirt and pine needles had contaminated the water. It tasted awful, but I managed to drink enough to satisfy my thirst temporarily.
By this time, night had fallen and darkness was slowly overtaking the sky. The blue horizon faded to a deep purple before snuffing out into blackness, meshing in the distance with the dark waters of the river as the tide was slowly rising from the distant sea. I recall staring up into the dark sky as I listened to the crackling of the fire, trying not to think about my dehydration.
In a hoarse tone, my dad asked if we had anything left to drink. I told him that we had an energy drink left, and despite that being his third of the day, he opted to drink it. His blood pressure was clearly spiking. His face was red, and his breathing was struggled. The pain in his leg was increasingly getting worse to where he wondered again how he would get down the plateau tomorrow and cross the river. And admittedly, I wasn’t sure how he would get home either.
Chapter Seven
Escape Plans
The fire had mellowed into a warm glow in the embers. The night breeze wafted the humid air through the campground. The heat of the day had only barely cooled, and we were out of water.
Dehydrated, wounded, dirty, sweaty, and longing for the comfort of home to nurse our wounds and drink cold water from the tap, we tried our best to lie still as the night slowly crept on. I lay staring up into the sky trying not to think of how thirst I was, instead trying to lull myself to sleep. But beyond my own thirst, was the fear for my father’s leg. He was badly injured and his fear of being unable to cross the river by morning was pressing on my mind. I was afraid that he was right. That he would be unable to descend the plateau, cross the shallows of slippery rocks, and swim to the safety of shore if the morning brought worse pain and more extreme dehydration.
I knew that moment, right then, would be the strongest he would be over the next twenty-four hours. We would both be exhausted, dehydrated, overheated, sore, and wounded, and it would only get worse the longer we waited. By morning, we could both be sick from the lack of water, and river water was unfit to drink since it stank and foamed on the surface.
I decided to make a proposition. In the dead of night, even in pitch blackness, we try to cross the river. Now, before we are too weak to cross and before his leg is too painful to even stand on. At first, he thought the idea was insanity. This water is home to enormous fish, eels as long as four feet, snapping turtles, snakes, and other predators not to mention dangers such as fishing line, hooks, trash, and most notably the rapids themselves. At night, the river swells slightly from the rising tide at the mouth of the river fed by the ocean. The white foaming rapids rage with a stronger pull, and a deadly undertow develops which has dragged unwary men down to their deaths on multiple occasions.
The idea was insane and incredibly dangerous, yet we had few other options. With some convincing, my dad agreed that if we didn’t leave the island now, we might not be able to leave the island on our own at all. The time to act was then. So we doused the fire, packed our supplies, grabbed our damp clothes hanging from the trees, and prepared to descend the plateau after a call to my mother begging for her to meet us at the boat launch across the river.
Thankfully, we both had flashlights. Switching them on, we instantly became aware of the cloud of bugs swarming around us as dense as a fog. We opted to descend in darkness so not to attract the mosquitoes to us.
The humidity had made the dirt on the ledge down the side of the red clay cliffs slick with mud. Our shoes slid and clusters of plants and rocks tumbled down the ledge. By clinging to tree roots and protruding rocks, we haphazardly fumbled our way down the ledge. My dad visibly winced with pain with each step, and growled as his wounded leg slid in the mud. Somehow we managed to reach the shore, muddied and shaken but with no further injuries. Ahead of us lay the overturned rafts still camouflage by the shrubbery. Turning them over, we loaded our supplies into them before dragging them to the water’s edge. Before us lay an ink-black rippling endless horizon of tumbling dark water. Holding our breath, we took our first steps into the unknown.
Chapter Eight
The River Styx
At roughly ten o’clock at night, the sky was black but somehow the river was even darker. I can’t find a word to describe a color darker than that, but it was as though someone had poured black ink into muddy water, and in that water were shadows darting to and fro around our feet.
Even in the shallows where the rocks slick with slime threatened to knock us off our feet, the rapids were forcefully pulling at us with each step. Towing our rafts behind us by a rope tied around our waists, we waded slowly deeper. In the shallow water, my dad’s walking was struggled and he growled aloud with each step, but the deeper water provided some relief, despite the pull of the rapids which he still had to fight against. By the waist-high water, I was being lifted up by the current. Every step I took was a struggle to plant my foot back down onto the slick rocks, since the current tried to sweep me along with it.
Deeper still as we pressed onward, the water reached my shoulders before I decided to try to swim forward, clinging to the side of my raft to stay afloat. The water was swiftly moving on the surface, but the undertow was twice as strong, pulling at my legs as I lifted them up to doggy-paddle. The raft I clung to was swiftly being carried in the opposite direction of the far shore, trying to drag me downriver back toward the island as though it weren’t finished with me yet. My father was still tall enough to walk in this water, and I heard him call to me to swim toward the shore, not downriver. Kicking as hard as I ever had, I gained some distance, though not even halfway across. To catch my breath, I attempted to stand up by dropping my feet only to learn that the water was so deep that I could not perceive where the bottom was. Even the tall river grass was so deep that it did not graze my toes. I learned later that this portion of water was twelve feet deep at least.
Pulling out my flashlight, which I was happy to learn was waterproof, I shined the light to find where my dad was. He too was swimming, struggling in the deep water. Seeing my light, he asked if I was alright. Which I was for the most part besides being out of breath, until the light from my flashlight drifted downward toward the water where I could see the silhouettes of long black eels swimming around me. I could see four in the moment I dared to look, there were probably more but I managed to switch off the flashlight to avoid looking at them.
My anxiety was building, and combined with my furious kicking to fight the river’s pull, I was running out of energy. My grip on the raft was keeping me afloat but my arms were quickly losing strength, so little by little I sank deeper toward the water as my grip loosened. I could hear my dad thrashing in the water, kicking despite his torn calf muscle to fight the water’s pull to drag us downriver. In such deep water, the undertow was stronger than I had ever felt it. Soon, I was thrashing and kicking in the water to go forward, but my efforts only caused me to be suspended perfectly in place, not going forward or back. Unable to keep up such a pace, I stopped kicking for only a moment to catch my breath and the river dragged me several yards away, losing the distance I had gained. I heard my dad again shouting that I needed to keep swimming, so I made an incredibly stupid decision. Thinking that the raft was holding me back from swimming, I tightened the knot around my waist and promptly let go of the boat.
Instantly, despite my swimming skills and desperate thrashing, I was pulled down under the water by the undertow. Like phantom hands grasping my legs, the tide pulled so roughly that it stayed my kicking. I wasn’t strong enough to keep moving my tired legs against the violent water, as though they were weighed down by the speed of the current. I tumbled in the water, the rope around my waist tangling around my right arm as I thrashed to try to surface. Caught in the line and unable to kick hard enough to break the surface, water poured into my nose and mouth. The water tasted like sulfur and mud, and it burned my throat as I swallowed it unwillingly.
Following the rope wound around my ensnared arm, I pulled myself up it and managed to grasp the side of my raft. Finally able to surface, I spit the foul water out of my mouth and gasped for breath as I heard my father shouting for me. I had drifted even further down river while struggling underwater. I noticed that I was still clutching the flashlight in my opposite hand and flicked it on. He had already been rushing toward me as best he could in the troubled waters. It was still too deep for either of us to reach, but when he was close enough he put out his hand and helped me further up onto my raft. Together, we held arms as we struggled to reach the far shore. I was still aware of the shadows swimming around us as I spit out more river water. Soon, we reached an area where I could barely touch the ground. We began tiptoeing, slipping, splashing, and staggering for shore. Coughing, heaving for breath, and limping on shaking legs up the boat launch until we reached solid ground, we dragged the rafts up onto the shore with what little strength we had before the headlights of my mother’s car appeared on the road up the street.
Chapter Nine
The Conclusion
The rest of that evening was spent hurling up river water into the toilet bowl, and to most people that would seem like the conclusion of a terrible day and a failed attempt at camping. But to the contrary, though the voyage was plagued by misfortune, accidents, poor judgement, and near death experiences, it is because of those things that I shall remember this as one of my favorite memories to share with my dad. Through it all, we relied on each other to make it through that night, we trusted each other to make it home, and endured misery together. Some would look at our camping trip as a failed attempt, but in my mind we conquered the island because we faced everything it had to throw at us and still made it home. We bested the island’s cursed legacy by proving we were strong enough to face it. The river tried to claim us, but together we made it back.
To me, this journey showed me, not that we are expert campers or great outdoorsmen, but that even in the toughest situations and most dire circumstances we will always be there for each other.
And with the sour taste of river water still in my mouth, I’m not likely to ever forget the fight for our lives against the cursed King’s Island or the adventure we shared on the ill-fated voyage.
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