Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [83]
For me, the frame served as a marker. That may seem simple, but federal game and fish officers routinely used Prospect as a launch for their twenty-two-foot Pathfinders. They frequented it because it was seldom used, tucked out of the way and gave them quick access up-and downriver. We slowed, rounded the bend and I cut us in closer to the bank, skimming across the tops of paper plate–sized lily pads to slow our speed more. The rusted tailpipe of the station wagon came into view first, followed quickly by the boat ramp. The game warden’s truck and trailer sat parked against the far fence. He was nowhere in sight but his trailer was empty, which meant he and his boat were touring the river. I said nothing to Abbie, but started thinking about a place to spend the night.
We slipped past Walker’s Landing, McKenzie Landing, Colerain, Gum Stump Landing, Orange Bluff, Mallets Landing and the Flea Hill boat ramp. The problem with all of this was not our speed—in river terms, we were flying—but the number of people I’d seen. Houses rose up on stilts or were buried into the bluffs in nearly every square inch of river frontage. And down here, people expect you to wave. It’s like two cars passing on a dirt road. You wave. It’s just the way it is. Boats on the river are the same way. Wave and you’re noticed little. Don’t wave, and you’re noticed a lot. I waved without bringing attention, but sooner or later, somebody would put us together with the news reports. If we caught the tide right and my body didn’t give out, we could be in St. Marys in thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Miss the tides and it was anybody’s guess.
LIKE TRADER’S HILL, Kings Ferry is a favorite among boaters, campers and joyriders. At its widest, it’s maybe a hundred and fifty yards across. They have a large floating concrete dock—because high and low tide can fluctuate by as much as five feet—a store and several houses built up close to the ramp. I didn’t want to pass it in the daylight. We floated until dark and passed through on the far side as the moon cracked over the treetops. That was both good and bad. Good because no one saw us. Bad because we missed the store and any chance at food.
Compounding the problem was the fact that I was deteriorating fast. I’d eaten sporadically and yet I was probably burning six to eight thousand calories a day. I’d long ago started eating away at my fat reserves. Not only was I growing weak, but huge blisters had come up across my palms, popped and were now raw and oozing. My sweat dripped down into the cracks, as did the water. And because the water was now tidal, it was also salty. Every time I dipped the paddle in the water, then flipped it over the opposite gunnel, the water trickled down and flowed across my hands.
While salt water hurt, it was not all bad. Salt water meant crabs. Blue crabs. And around here, blue crabs meant crab traps. It was a mortal sin to steal from another man’s trap. People had been shot over such a thing. I spotted several numbered white floats down the center of the river, lifted them over the side and stole every crustacean I could dig out. Five traps later, I had twenty-eight crabs. Abbie poked open an eye and said, “Isn’t that illegal?”
“Yep.”
“If those things clamp onto my toe, I’m coming out of this canoe.”
I