by Erin Teagan
Jake stands up in the boat, nearly tipping us over, and I get a close-up of the water. It’s chocolate brown, like it’s straight out of Willy Wonka’s factory. But when I dip my hand in, it drips clean and clear from my fingers.
I take the middle plank seat as Jake grabs an oar and sits up front. Dad takes the seat behind me and helps Jake paddle, steering the boat in the right direction. The canoe is tippy and I’m uncomfortable. Even with all my extra padding, my butt goes numb within three seconds.
“Are there life preservers on this boat?” I ask.
“Hope you don’t get seasick,” Jake says over his shoulder.
Rick, the production guy, revs the engine of the boat behind us and flies away from the shore, Bianca and Wes kneeling inside. They take some shots in front of us and then to the right, Rick telling us to face forward like we’re George Washington seeing the swamp for the first time. That reminds me of school and sixth-grade graduation—and Harper, who probably still hates me. She never even responded to my text.
I look over my shoulder, and the Jeep and the rest of the crew are tiny ants behind us. I have another secret freak-out because I’ll be sleeping in a shelter made of leaves and twigs and spiderwebs, eating moss for breakfast, and taking pee breaks in the bear- and bug-infested woods.
And there’s no turning back.
Eight
When the narrow Interior Ditch waterway dumps us into Lake Drummond, it’s like coming out of the dense jungle and into the wide open. The lake is so huge ahead of us, all I can see is water for miles. Dad nudges me. “If you ever wonder why I do what I do . . .” He rests his paddle on his lap and spreads his arms out like all of this belongs to him.
I try to take everything in. The dark chocolate water, the butterflies, the giant trees sprouting right out of the lake, their roots exposed like a fish obstacle course.
“Archery matches are pretty cool too,” I say, because Harper’s dad goes to every single one, even though she’s terrible.
Dad doesn’t hear me, his eyes closed, his whole face lit by the sun. My stomach growls, apparently fully recovered from the earlier trauma and ready for a snack. Jake shoots me a look, then goes back to paddling. Camera-lady Bianca is loving my dad sitting there in complete Survivor Guy bliss. The camera boat is staying right beside us, the fumes from the motor making me dizzy on top of my lightheadedness from lack of food.
“We’ll need some water shots.” Rick calls. “Let’s stop here.”
Dad stands up and pulls open a trunk behind him. It’s not filled with life preservers like I had thought, but with long wading overalls. He pulls out three and hands Jake and me each a pair. “Dad?” I say.
“Go ahead and pull the plug when you’re ready,” Rick yells across the water.
“What plug?” I ask.
“How long do we have to walk?” Jake says, scanning the lake. “I don’t see the camp.”
“We’re getting in the lake?”
Rick spins the camera boat around so Bianca’s camera is in my face, and the audio guy positions his boom mic to hover directly over my head. I swat them away, along with the dozen or so little black flies that discover us as soon as our boat floats to a stop.
“Just for a bit, sweetie,” Dad says, like we’re stopping for milkshakes or something. “This episode is called ‘When Fishing with the Family Goes Bad.’ We just need to set things up.”
“There are alligators in swamps!” I shriek, and the crew snickers. “There are!” I read about them in chapter three, “Southern Swamps and How Not to Get Eaten by a Predator,” in the General’s book.
Dad holds on to my shoulder for balance as he puts his overalls on. “FACT! We’re still too far north for alligators. You think I’d put you in an alligator-infested lake?”
“For the record, it was supposed to be called ‘When Father-Son Fishing Goes Bad,’” Jake adds. He sits on the edge of the boat, yanks a plug out of the floor, and flings himself into the water, nearly capsizing us. Water bubbles up from the small hole and I rush into my own waders, checking to make sure my compass is tucked safely in my pocket. Jake stands up, as surprised as I am to find the lake is only about four feet deep here. Not enough water to seep over his overalls, but plenty for a hungry alligator to hide in, if you ask me. I’m sweating, pulling up my waders, but they’re not going on easy like they are for everyone else.
Dad steps into the lake like a normal human being, one leg at a time, and then he approaches the camera. He’s out of breath all of a sudden, like he’s just finished a triathlon. “Lake Drummond,” he says into the lens. “One of two natural freshwater lakes in Virginia. A day out fishing with the family, when disaster strikes.”
Bianca swings her camera in my direction and I realize I’m alone on the boat. Where is Rick? And then I see him catching up to Jake a few feet away, wearing his own set of waders. I tug at my overalls, not about to be left out in the middle of a swampy lake by myself. I nearly have a hysterical fit when something cold and slithery touches my arm. The canoe sways dangerously and I see it’s only the metal handle of the oar. I stare at Dad.
He’s talking into the camera again. “Serenity for miles and miles.” He moves his arm over the water, letting some sprinkle through his fingers. “Just goes to show that danger can lurk anywhere.”
“Dad?” I say. “Some help?”
“. . . two-mile walk to shore with only enough water packed for a day trip and no food . . .”
I manage to get my foot stuck sideways in my wader. The puddle on the floor of the boat has swelled to a little pool. “Dad!”
I try waving to get Jake’s attention, but he’s giggling with Rick about something. When did they get to be such good friends? I look down to find the pool up to my ankles now. “This boat is sinking!”
I stand to yank up my overalls and the boat tips again, so I collapse back to the floor, grabbing the sides for dear life, splashing swamp water into my face. I stand again slowly and swing a leg over the side, reaching in vain for some solid ground, the boat threatening to flip. I shimmy closer to the side of the boat, but it’s not enough. “Dad?” The boat is half filled with swamp now and I feel the cool water against the back of my waders. “Jake?”
I try to hop in like my dad, but it’s not working, so I slide into the water on my belly, feet first, holding on to one of the seats for leverage. But the bottom of the lake is too far, so I’m left dangling, praying the camera is still focused on Dad. I hear splashing behind me. “Ali!” Dad calls.
I’m fully in the water now, my feet on the soft peat floor of the swamp. Dad grabs me and wraps me in a hug. I want to yell at him for not rescuing me. I mean, is this how the rest of the week is going to go? Instead, I squeeze him back and we watch the canoe submerge into the chocolate darkness.
“Fabulous father-daughter moment. Just fabulous!” Rick says, and I’m beginning to dislike the guy.
Jake appears beside us. “We might need this for shelter.” He lifts the nose of the canoe back out of the water, checking over his shoulder to make sure the camera is still rolling. “Night is about to fall.”
I look at the sky. Yeah, in about four hours. But Dad must think it’s a good idea too because they are both inching the sunken boat across the lake. Bianca and her camera are in the water now with Wes close by in the boat, his boom mic extended over the lake on a long pole. Bianca wades up to me with Rick, trying to keep their equipment dry. “Mind talking about the boat accident into the camera?” Bianca says, and before I can respond, I see the little red light ping on and Rick flashes me a thumbs-up sign.
“Uh, well, it wasn’t really an accident, right? Jake pulled the plug and the boat started filling up with water. I tried getting out, but it was really hard with these on.” I snap a strap of my overalls. They’re still staring at me so I say, “The end.”
“Uh, great. Thanks.” Bianca looks at Rick and I can tell it’s not exactly the accident report they’re looking for. They drift off toward their boat.
<
br /> Behind them the rest of the crew heaves the canoe up out of the lake and pours all the water out of it. Three of the guys haul it onto their heads and start marching toward a little column of smoke drifting into the sky on the shore.
Jake joins me and Dad and we start our trek in the same direction, my legs burning from the effort of moving through the water after only a few strides. Rick, Bianca, and Wes glide along next to us in the safety of their boat.
My waders weigh three thousand pounds. “Are we almost there?” I ask. I hear Wes snicker. They’re probably going to make me look like this scaredy-baby that doesn’t want to break a nail. I look at my hands and realize that, even though I’ve never had a manicure before, if given the choice between slogging through alligator waters in the middle of a swamp or getting a manicure, I’d have to go with getting my nails done. Guess I’m more like Mom in that way.
“Ouch!” Jake cradles his arm. “Something jumped out of the water and bit me.”
Bianca is there first, getting Jake’s agony on tape.
“Am I bleeding? That’s blood, right?”
Dad lunges through the water. “Swamp muskie.”
“It just leaped up and bit me,” Jake says into the camera. “His teeth were like five inches long.”
Swamp muskie? I pull my arms out of the water. We’re walking again, Jake asking about rabies and Lyme disease and Dad talking about swamp muskies into the camera. I shuffle faster, cringing each time my feet sink into the peat, hoping I don’t stir up anything else. “I’m not dinner,” I whisper toward the water. Although I could use some myself.
“What’s that, Ali-Gator?”
Everyone spins around and the crew halts. “Ali-Gator,” Dad says, pointing to me. “My little alligator.”
Rick shakes his head from his boat. “Say aye if Ali-Gator needs a new nickname.”
“Aye!” everyone says.
Nine
After what feels like an hour of walking through the thick water in the beating-down sun, the column of smoke we’re slogging toward looks no closer. My legs are dead weight, and my arms are tingly from holding them out of reach of the swamp muskies. And if one more creature bumps against my waders, I will have a total freak-out right here in the middle of Lake Drummond.
“Swamp muskies jump, you know,” Jake says, still holding his arm delicately.
“How many people work here?” I ask, counting one camera lady, a producer, a sound guy, a woman driving the luggage boat, and three guys heaving the canoe across the lake over their heads. That’s seven people. Not exactly one guy, one camera, and miles and miles of unforgiving wilderness.
“Takes a lot of people to make a successful TV show,” Dad says.
“But I thought it was just you and a camera.”
Dad looks at me. “That’s just our show’s slogan. You know that.”
“No, I didn’t,” I say, because isn’t the whole point of this show for him to teach the people of the world how to save themselves if they ever have to survive in the wild alone?
“Oh, sweetheart.” He gives me a sideways hug.
“Alison never pays attention to anything,” Jake says.
“Not true!” I say, because there are a ton of things I pay attention to. Like the suffocating heat and humidity of this place. And the gathering clouds above us. Great. All we need is a rainstorm.
“What’s my girlfriend’s name?” Jake says.
“You have a girlfriend?”
He shakes his head, but I ignore him. How am I supposed to keep up with all the details of his social life?
The guys carrying the canoe are so far ahead of us, all I can see is the up-and-down bob of the boat on their heads. It’s only us back here still in the middle of the lake. Dad, Jake, and me. And the camera boat, of course. I want to climb in and collapse on the bottom of it with a bag of trail mix. That’s right. I’m so hungry, I’d eat a bag of trail mix. And this time I’d eat all the healthy junk too.
“You are forlorn,” Rick says from the comfort of the boat. “Hopeless. Will you make it? Is there any chance of rescue in this unforgiving wilderness?”
I don’t have to act. I am the combination of forlornity and hopelessness all bundled into one. Dad and Jake are splashing each other and seeing who can run the farthest without falling in the water.
“You are stranded in the middle of the Great Dismal Swamp, people!” Rick says.
Dad and Jake straighten. I try to catch up, but my feet are like cinder blocks. Dad turns to the camera, all of a sudden serious and foreboding. He cups a handful of water. “Some say these waters are healing waters. Something my son Jake here will soon find out.” Dad pours some over Jake’s muskie bite, which looks more like a mosquito bite to me. He gently holds Jake’s arm and Jake winces. Since when did he become such a great actor? Is this entire show one big act?
“Dad,” I say, impatient. “How much longer until we’re out of this lake?” Not like I’m particularly looking forward to arriving on the banks of this nasty swamp, because then what? We pitch a tent out of leaves and call it a night?
“Ow!” Producer guy stands up wildly in the boat. “I just got bit.” He swats around his head. “There’s another one. Ouch!” He crouches over, still trying to bat away whatever is biting him. “They’re swarming me!” Bianca is standing now too, dropping her camera, the boat tipping and swaying.
Yellow flies. I jog clumsily through the water. Where’s that helmet? But it’s long gone to shore on the luggage boat. “You’ve got to start moving,” I say. “Six to seven miles per hour!” I quote Betsy Sue. “Go, go!”
The boat motor comes to life and they circle around us. Dad and Jake are still standing there and I splash past them. “Run!” I say. “Yellow flies!”
Jake laughs. “I hope you got that, Bianca,” he calls.
And that’s when I feel the first bite. No buzzing, no warning, just a stinging pain in my shoulder. And then another one on my back. I am running as fast as I can, smacking flies from my arms and shoulders, dousing my head with water. I trip, feel cold swamp fill my waders, and push myself off the bottom with my hand, dunking my entire body.
Dad runs past, arms waving. “Grab onto me!” He extends his hand for me to take, but I miss it and he keeps running, leaving me there.
I stand up, the relief of the cool water already gone, and cringe at the sight of my arms and the swollen bites. “Jake!” I call behind me. “Don’t just stand there! You have to run.” I can actually see the swarm of flies circling him. It’s like getting out of there hadn’t occurred to him, because as soon as I suggest it, he bolts in my direction. And all I can think is, his swarm of flies will be looking for fresh blood. I take off the same way Dad went, but Jake passes me easily.
“Wait for me!” I yell, but neither Jake nor Dad turns around. It’s every man for himself out here. “Dad!”
I fall again, this time getting a mouthful of swamp water, my waders fully flooded. They must weigh three tons now, and I start to wonder how I’ll ever get out of this lake. I hear a boat and I stand up to see Dad and Jake waving at it hysterically. But the boat comes to me first. It has the Survivor Guy logo on the side, but the driver is new. And a kid.
“Get in,” he says.
“How old are you?” I ask, trying to hop in the boat without flipping it over.
“Old enough,” he replies, even though he looks barely older than me. “I’m Adam, the summer intern.”
He hauls me onto the boat and helps me struggle out of my waders. I check to make sure my compass is still in my pocket, and then collapse onto the floor.
We take off, the wind feeling wonderful against my throbbing skin.
Ten
My skin is on fire by the time we step onto shore.
“This way,” Adam says, pulling my elbow, leading me past the rest of the boats already tied up.
“What about my dad?” I look over my shoulder to scan the lake, because everyone is out now except for Dad and Jake. I get distr
acted by the flies. There are more. Hundreds more. Swarms of them by the trees.
“How are we going to sleep outside like this?” I ask. “We’ll get eaten alive.”
“Outside?” Adam looks toward the trees and snorts. “Ha! That’s hilarious.”
My arms are itchy and bulgy with bites, and for once I wish Mom was here. She has a superhero skin-care cream for every occasion. I don’t want to look like a monster my first time on TV.
“Why is that so hilarious?”
Rick and Bianca burst through the trees. “Run, Ali!” they say. “Over here!”
And I do, because what nutjob would stand around in an insect- and snake-infested swamp when two grownups tell you to run like your life depends on it? Not this nutjob. I run, even though my legs are soggy from the trek through the lake, leaping over knee-high weeds, tripping over puddles of swamp until I reach the safety of the trees.
“Good job,” Rick says, jiggling me and patting me on the back. “Great, just great. Could really see the fear. You ever been on camera before?”
I look back at Adam and he’s bent over, laughing.
“Get some footage of them coming in,” Rick tells Bianca, waving toward Jake and my dad puttering in on another boat. “Son, take Ali to the dining tent and touch base with the animal trainer,” he tells Adam.
I stand straighter. “No thanks, I’ll just wait for my dad.”
“Schedule’s tight.” Rick squeezes my shoulder. “Go get some dinner.”
Adam walks right past me, and Rick gives me a push to follow. I step over roots and rocks, watching for spiderwebs, following Adam. Then I come into a clearing. A giant clearing in the middle of the Great Dismal Swamp with flowers and mowed grass and walking bridges over a little canal of rich brown water. Beyond the walking bridges is an old brick cottage with a big screened-in porch, a mammoth camping trailer, a bunch of tents, a circle of smaller trailers, and dozens of people whizzing around in camouflage-colored golf carts. I freeze. This is not Survivor Guy. This is a circus.
