Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [85]
I nodded. “I want to. I have to.”
He said nothing more. Neither did our boatman. Seeing me stripped down to my swimsuit but still lingering in the skiff, the two fishermen were looking at me and murmuring among themselves. How could I back out now? I asked myself. I’d look like a fine idiot in front of these two men. I had no choice. By revealing my swimsuit I had committed myself. Or might find myself committed, when I got back home to tell the story. If I got back home to tell the story.
Although our little outboard was small, it suddenly seemed an amazingly long way over the side and down to the water. There was, of course, no ladder. Bare feet first, I slipped myself over the gunwale. The silvery metal was as hot against my belly and chest as the water crawling up my legs was cool. I would readily have enjoyed a swim if I had not been so uncertain as to the nature of my fellow swimmers. Hanging on to the side with both hands, ready to pull myself back into the boat at a moment’s notice, I looked around anxiously, not nearly as cool as the water in which I was presently submerged. Viewed from eye level, the river in which I now found myself looked even darker. Blackwater, indeed. I could see into it to a depth of about six inches. Below that, all was chilly, wet, absolute gloom. What was swimming around down there, out of view and just under my feet? What might have been attracted by the disturbance of my entry? I had no idea how deep the river was at this place.
Nothing nibbled my toes. A curious caiman would most likely approach on the surface and could be spotted by those around me. I had the benefit of four lookouts on two boats. But I continued to hang onto the side, unwilling as yet to abandon the safety offered by the skiff.
I looked up at Gil. “Can you see them? Where are they?”
He shook his head. “I think maybe they went away when you entered the water.”
All this preparation, all this mental anguish, I thought, for nothing? A part of me was relieved—but the other, the larger part, was crushed. I was on the verge of climbing back into the boat when Gil unexpectedly and with a tinge of excitement in his voice announced, “No, one is still here.”
I spun around in the water, one hand gripping the gunwale tightly. I could feel the strain in my arm. “Where?” My eyes practically level with the surface, I couldn’t see a damn thing.
Gil pointed. “Over there. It’s coming straight toward you!”
I whirled, swirling water around me. Nothing. I couldn’t see anything in the river.
“It just went down,” Gil alerted me.
Something struck my right thigh. Reflexively, I jerked upward. Gil’s tone was suddenly anxious.
“It bite you?”
“No.” I took careful stock of my leg and its immediate vicinity. “No. Just bumped me.” I noticed that Gil was staring straight down as he activated the video camera. Delight replaced concern in his voice.
“I can see it clearly. It’s right next to you. This is wonderful!”
I looked around; I looked down. I couldn’t . . . see . . . anything. My frustration knew no bounds. “Where?” I pleaded. “Where is it?”
“Right beside you—oh, it’s gone now.”
I slowed my frantic turning. Evidently I had been the recipient of a rare and spectacularly close encounter—except that I had seen none of it.
“There, behind you!” Gil was looking past me and pointing.
About ten feet behind me, the otter had stuck her head (I fancied calling it a “her”) out of the water and was looking squarely in my direction. I let go of the side of the boat and, swimming very slowly while careful to keep my head above the surface, started breaststroking toward her. I had approached to within perhaps six feet when she suddenly vanished. Where had she gone? I heard Gil call out softly.
“Behind you! She’s behind you.”
I spun. The otter had indeed appeared directly behind me. I started toward her, and she disappeared again. A moment later Gil’s voice sounded afresh. His enthusiasm had reached new levels. “She’s behind you again.” Was he laughing?
I turned, swam. The otter dived. It