Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [125]
Rammed into the sand on the south side of the bluff lay a squared log. It looked weathered, was tunneled along one side by worms, was rough hewn—maybe even by hand—and looked about twelve feet long. Most important, it was bobbing.
It was heavy, which would be needed in about six miles, so I ran back to Abbie, picked her up and carried all that I held dear back down the beach. We reached the log and I laid her onto it, draping an arm around each side, and we shoved off. I latched on to the front and kicked us into the current. It picked us up, straightened us and led us out.
From the front, I could steady the log, keep Abbie afloat and make minute changes to our direction. It also allowed me to look at Abbie. We’d been in the water a few minutes when she stirred. Blood dripped off her face and trickled onto the log where it mixed with the water and trailed behind us.
The river had overflowed on every side. The volume was unlike anything I’d ever imagined. As was its speed. Even without a paddle and with me dragging in the water, we were making five to six miles an hour. In normal tides, dragging like this would pull me across the top of razor-sharp oyster beds, slicing my legs and back to shreds. But the volume had changed that. The only problem with our speed was Devil’s Elbow.
The current and weight of the log kept us in the middle. Actually, we didn’t have much of a choice. The further we flowed, the more whitecaps we encountered. Soon, they were rolling over the top of Abbie. The good news was that they couldn’t swamp us. The bad news was they were nearly drowning me. I clung to the front and kicked with little effect. The waves crashed across us, tearing at my hands.
We floated a mile, then two, made the wide southward turn at Rose’s Bluff and, finally, headed due east into the last straight stretch before Devil’s Elbow. Around us, the bank was a feeding frenzy of redfish and tarpon. On each side, the water had covered up the pluff mud and driven the fiddler crabs from their holes. Some clung to the wiregrass with their one large claw while others floated helplessly along the water’s surface.
I heard it long before I saw it.
Devil’s Elbow is the last bend before you reach St. Marys. When the waters collide, the river makes a muted roaring sound like rapids. The waves grow two to four feet and foam with whitecaps—enough to swamp any canoe. When I was guiding, we learned to skirt the elbow by paddling wide south and slingshotting around it. The problem with the log I was currently holding on to was control. I couldn’t paddle wide and we’d miss the slingshot.
The sound woke Abbie. She grabbed my hand and continued to straddle the log with her legs. The water swept us up, pushing us through the center of the elbow. Water rolled over the top of us, crashed down on the center of us and pulled at me from all sides. I hugged the log, trying to keep it upright, but I’m afraid I had little effect. Fortunately for us, the log was so long and heavy, it rode through the elbow as much as over it. I gripped the log and felt finger grooves on the far side. I moved to the side, threw an arm around Abbie, dug my fingers into the grooves and hung on. We passed through the chop, turned left or northeast and for the first time, saw St. Marys in the distance. All the buildings were white and the masts of nearly a hundred moored sailboats soared into the air. I swam to the other side of the log and that’s when it hit me. The timber. The grooves were actually letters—carved into the wood. I looked a second time at the log, finally recognizing it. Even pirates need God. I retraced the grooves, finishing the sentence. “…I will be with you.”
I kicked and pulled on the log, steering us toward the Florida side and pulling us wide of St. Marys. In the distance, news trucks with telescoping satellite antennaes sat parked along