The last thing he expected was to see the little fellow jump in, quickly followed by the dog, and begin to ford the river. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d jumped into the water on this early winter morning and was doing some clumsy strokes towards the other bank. The coast obscured his view when they were somewhere in the middle, but soon they reappeared, and standing on the other bank. Now they walked behind him on the coast, and almost caught him up. He saw the skinny figure of the little fellow against the sky, looking shrunk and dark and dripping water as he came. He looked just like a lake duck, a widow dressed in mourning. His clothes were black with water and were plastered to his skin.
Again he wished he’d had the old man’s shotgun with him, to fire above their heads and send them packing. It was madness.
And now he’d stopped his rowing. This really made his blood boil. He didn’t want to show surprise, nor even that he’d seen them. He set to with the oars again and slowly upped his rhythm. They followed, but were held up all the time along the coast, completely wild here, and where they had to get across all kinds of hurdles. At times they disappeared behind some bushes or some trees. Most likely making detours. It made him glad each time it happened. Frequently the little fellow preferred to wade among the reeds, with the water to his waistline. When they disappeared from view, he took advantage of the chance to row as strongly as he could, to put some space between them.
And right up to the Inca, with him a little ahead. He saw them stop and disappear, and slowed up just a little, feeling suitably intrigued. It took a little while, but then he saw them on the other bank. He flew into a real rage and made his mind up there and then to move out from the shore, embarking on a detour. They stopped and looked, dismayed, when they saw his change of course. Then they sprang into the water and began to swim again. He swore he’d never pick them up, even if they drowned.
The river was on the rise. He could clearly see the boat from here. It wouldn’t have taken long for him to make his way across, but if he wanted to get rid of them he had to hold his course, to convince them he was going across the Bajo. Then they’d turn around.
The advantage that they had was that the water in the Bajo isn’t deep. Normally it doesn’t reach above half a metre. Breaking through the surface here and there are lumps of trees, and branches that are sticking in the bottom. The little fellow went on wading. It was really odd to see him there, far out from the shore and with the water to his waist. Now and then he vanished as he fell into a pothole. So sometimes it was half a little fellow that tracked him through the water, at others just a quarter, and at others just a head. The dog, on the other hand, swam a decent stretch at first, and then the little fellow was forced to turn around and pick it up.
He couldn’t make out that he hadn’t seen them there, but he rowed as if he hadn’t. And then, deep down, he started feeling sorry for the pair. Gradually they fell behind. The water went on rising. The flood tide had begun when it was quite late in the morning, and without a lot of force. But now, and very suddenly, he noticed that the water, instead of easing off was coming in a lot more strongly. He felt it in the boat, which began to move around. He looked back at the little fellow. It was covering him up. When he would at last have to swim, he’d be quickly swept away. He’d put the dog on his shoulders, and he had to stop at times, but he never gave a sign of turning back. And even if he had done, the water would have covered him before he’d reached the shore.
Now he wasn’t rowing, but he moved the oars in such a way that, looked at from a distance, it would seem as if he was. He couldn’t go on like that for long. At last he rowed towards the little fellow, leading with the stern. Besieged as he was, the other wouldn’t be sure if he was approaching or moving away. While he rowed towards them, he cursed them under his breath.
When he came up close, he called:
‘It’s best you turn back now!’
His voice was swept away across the morning by a gust of wind. And it wouldn’t be any use, but he’d said it as a threat as much as anything.
‘Can’t you bloody hear me? Don’t think I’m going to pull you out!’
Now the little fellow was swimming, or rather, he was splashing, because the dog made his clumsy swimming style even clumsier, and then, and with a frightening speed, the water started taking them.
‘Good! I’m bloody glad!’ he yelled, but now a little wildly.
He began to row towards them using all the strength he had, and swearing at them both.
The dog had come adrift and was quickly disappearing. He pushed the boat up close and waited for the little fellow to grip the stern. He didn’t let him climb in but rowed straight after the dog. Only when he’d reached the dog and pulled it on the boat, did he go to help the little fellow.
And now they were sitting there, together in the stern, with the water running off them, both shivering with the cold. He looked at them, frustrated, and said, his teeth clenched:
‘Fuck the bloody pair of you!’
This was how Boga, in turn, moved onto the boat, the old, dejected Aleluya.
It was as if he’d searched all summer long, and only now, in the middle of the winter, had found it, with all its past forgotten.
He waited for a day when the bajante reached its limit and he set to right the boat, with the assistance of the little fellow. They set it up on wedges so the water wouldn’t reach it. It had a second hole further back towards the stern, right up against the keel, put there by a log that had been buried in the mud. He pulled away the timbers that would have to be replaced, and discovered that the boat’s wounds were fatal. There were ribs that were splitting, and several different places where the rot was wreaking havoc. The damage, overall, was of old wounds reopened, and quickly made a lot worse when the boat was cast aside. The water hadn’t reached a level high enough to float her, but there wasn’t any doubt that she’d been thrown about a bit, which had loosened up her seams. He couldn’t do a lot, but he would try to do it anyway. He was determined to get her back on the water, as old and dejected as she might appear to be.
He changed several planks and he bound the splitting ribs, and used the cotton wicking in all the cracks. He scarcely had materials, but Fourcade got some planks and then a bit more cotton wicking and some leftovers of paint as well as other bits and pieces.
‘I don’t know what crap’s got into your head.’ It was all that Fourcade said.
He selected the place where he would anchor the hull, and told the little fellow to dig a trench to there. When he’d done the boat repairs, he helped complete the trench.
Now things were ready. It was just a case of waiting for a flood tide that was high enough. With the flood tide and the trench, they would get her off the sandbank.
The water rose and, sure enough, she came off with the water and the trench. They tied her up to two stakes, and then he climbed aboard and had a good look round the bottom. It wasn’t leaking much. He had to wait a while, give the new planks time to swell, and then with luck the leak would slow. He could feel satisfied with this work.
He was sad at heart, despite this. There was something that was final in it. Something that was final for himself and for the boat.
The days go on by.
He went back to his fishing, and, at last, he took the little fellow along. The restlessness had disappeared. Now he was happy to be living on the boat. The boat and little fellow and dog. It’s incredible the turns the river takes.