In the Same Boat

by Holly Green

  for Woody

  for Dad

  “I was praying a snake would bite me so I could get out of this thing honorably.”

  Unknown competitor, 1963 Texas Water Safari

  Life magazine, June 7, 1963

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The green glow on the watch taped to the front of my canoe cuts through the darkness. It’s a smack in the face. How has it only been six minutes since I last checked? I’d swear an hour has passed.

  “Constant forward motion, Sadie,” Dad says.

  His words echo in my head, drowning out the cicadas and the frogs and the rush of the river. I dig my paddle into the water for a hard stroke. My shoulders, my lower back, even my legs all scream with pain.

  The race started yesterday morning, which means we’ve been on the water for … twenty-four and then … I can’t hold the numbers in my head. I can’t hear them over the scream of my shoulder. The last mile marker I saw was 187. That’s whatever 265 minus 187 is.

  Eighty-three?

  No.

  Too many.

  It’s too many freaking miles.

  My eyes go blurry with tears. Which makes it harder to spot obstacles in the river. Especially on this dark, dark night lit only by a pair of Maglites strapped to the nose of the canoe. I try to blink the tears back in, but it doesn’t do any good.

  And I can’t wipe them away. Because I can’t stop paddling.

  Because Dad would know I’m crying. Again.

  “You’re sagging,” Dad says. “Get a snack if you need one. We’re making good time, and I don’t want to lose this pace.”

  “I’m okay,” I lie. I’m not hungry, but I lay my paddle across my lap and rip a GU packet off the inside of the canoe. The boat rocks a bit with the effort. I bring the packet up to my lips. A burst of orange-flavored energy gel hits my tongue.

  After a few minutes, the fog in my mind clears.

  My body still hurts.

  Three days ago, Dad and I used epoxy to glue the tops of the GU packets into the side of the boat, so that when we ripped them off, we would be ripping them open. I’d thought we were geniuses. That we’d be masters of this race. That we’d have a sub-fifty-hour finish. Maybe we’d even cross the San Antonio Bay at sunrise when it’s supposed to be the calmest.

  I want to punch myself in the face for being so stupid. So overly confident. Because it’s not just the pain and the fatigue, or the mayflies that somehow got inside my shirt and down my sports bra. We’re in a boat, paddling downriver in the middle of nowhere. Threatened by snakes and submerged trees and rapids and low branches and dams and log jams. Fishing line caught between branches that could knock us out of the boat. The woods could be crawling with murderers.

  We spent so much time preparing. Scouting the river. Obsessing over water levels. I’ve followed this race for as long as I can remember. I thought I knew what to expect. But for the last few hours … Even longer than that, really … For the last day, maybe, with the finish line still an eternity away, the words I want to quit have been perched on the tip of my tongue.

  And about thirty minutes ago, they actually came out. I wish I could suck the words back in my mouth, because I know he heard me, and he didn’t say a thing. Maybe he thinks I didn’t mean it.

  I tuck the empty packet into my trash bag, rub the tears out of my eyes, and start paddling again. Everything hurts. I’ve never been so tired in my life. But I keep going.

  Because we are Scofields.

  Scofields don’t quit.

  Scofields don’t even stop to rest.

  Every Scofield for the past three generations has finished the Texas River Odyssey, 265 miles of sweat and pain and paddling. My brother, Tanner, finished the race with Dad last year and is somewhere behind us in a solo right now. He’s probably never even thought of quitting. My mom has finished. Even my grandmother has.

  We race because it’s hard. Because it’s pushing yourself further than what a lot of people think is even possible. It’s finding out what you’re made of.

  And doing the race, finishing it, is what makes you a real Scofield.

  “That’s good, Sade. Now let’s pick up the pace a little.”

  As I dig in harder and faster with my paddle, the tears well in my eyes again.

  * * *

  Inside the cone of light from our flashlights, there’s a bend in the river ahead.

  “Let’s ride the eddy line here,” Dad calls.

  He steers us into the place where the fast-rippled water meets the slower flat water, but it’s hard for him to see from the back of the boat, so I make a tiny draw to the right, putting us on the line. It’ll keep us moving with the fast water, but we can jump into the slow water to avoid an obstacle if we need to.

  The nose of the canoe starts to veer off into the eddy, the slow water. I jab my paddle into the water on the left and pull. I pull too hard, and as we round the bend, we’re sucked into the current.

  But it’s okay. No sweeper ahead—a fallen tree waiting to sweep us out of the boat. No strainer, either—a submerged tree with branches sticking up, straining the water. Some rocks and a log to our left, but smooth water ahead. I keep paddling.

  And then we’re almost on it. The water is breaking around something black. A branch or a piece of wood or something. My heart thuds as I dig my paddle into the water to draw us off it. The bow clears it by a hair and my body softens with relief.

  Then the current grabs the stern and pushes the boat sideways.

  I backsweep, but it’s too late. I should have done it sooner. I should have called to Dad that I was drawing us off something. My stomach drops as Dad yells, “Backpaddle!”

  And I do. I reach as far back as I can, put in my paddle, and push it forward, willing the boat to back up. The boat rocks as Dad draws us to the left. Too late. The current’s got us. The boat whams into the branch. And it must be more than just a branch under the surface. There’s a sickening crack and I’m lurched to the side.

  I crash into cold water. It seeps into my clothes and my shoes and covers my face as the current pushes me forward. I hold what’s left of my breath. My body scrapes against something hard. I kick and pull with my arms and claw my way to the surface. My head breaks through. Water streams into my mouth as I gasp for breath.

  I scramble to get into position—feet first, but the water’s pushing me too hard, turning me. My right side slams into a rock. There’s a sharp pain and something inside me cracks and all the air is knocked out of my lungs. I can’t let the river take me any farther. I grab, tear, kick at the rock, scrambling to the top, and finally, I kneel hands and knees on it, out of the water.

  I gulp down a fe
w hard breaths. And then the pain hits. Something sharp in my side. My rib cage. I try to suck in more air—but can’t get enough. My chest heaves as I gasp for more.

  “Dad.”

  My voice is barely above a whisper. My heart beats in my throat. I scan the river. Where is he? The only light comes from the other side of the river. From the flashlights attached to the bow. The boat must have floated into an eddy. The light moves across the water and the trees onshore, but Dad’s not in it.

  His voice comes from upriver. “Sadie! Sadie, where are you? Are you okay?”

  I take the deepest breath I can. “Dad!” It comes out louder this time. Hopefully loud enough.

  “Where are you?”

  “Downstream. On a rock. River left.”

  “You safe there?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, but my voice is tight. I take the biggest breaths I can manage, trying not to cry. “You?”

  “I’m okay.”

  The flashlights turn, illuminating Dad for a moment. He’s standing in the shallow eddy. The light moves again and blinds me, then shifts downstream.

  “I’m on my way.”

  And I’m able to take a deeper breath.

  My dad is coming to get me.

  * * *

  “It took a serious hit.” Dad crouches next to the boat on a sandbar and examines the hull in the light of his headlamp.

  “I’m on it,” I say between shallow breaths. I hold my side as I crouch down and dig one-handed in the front of the boat.

  We do some duct tape repair work before we get back in. I swallow a couple of Advil. The pain gets worse when I move my right arm. I don’t tell Dad. What good would it do? Gingerly, I put my right hand on the top of the paddle and my left on the shaft, brace myself with my right foot, and take a stroke.

  Constant forward motion.

  Paddle through the pain.

  Don’t cry.

  “Probably another fifteen minutes to Victoria,” Dad says. “We’ll have a good story for your mom.”

  Victoria is the next checkpoint, where our bank crew, Mom, will give us food and fresh water and sign us in with the race officials so we can keep going. I think Dad expects me to chuckle or agree or something, but I don’t. I’m grasping for anything to focus on—the river, the trees, the breeze on my face—because it’s like a knife is jabbing into my side.

  “Can I get a hut?” I ask, desperate to paddle on the other side.

  “Hut,” Dad answers as I begin my next stroke.

  I finish the stroke and switch sides, paddling on my right. But even keeping my right arm close to my side while I paddle doesn’t help. The knife is still there, twisting its way into my body.

  “You hurting?” Dad asks.

  “My side.”

  “I’ll take a look when we pull in. We’ll see what we can do to make you more comfortable.”

  We must have missed a crack, because water is seeping into the bottom of the boat by my feet. Not so much that the pumps can’t handle it, but we don’t want to burn them out. I’m starting to think we might need to pull over and fix it when I spot lights up ahead. One of them must be Mom’s headlamp.

  In another minute, the beam of our flashlights hits her, standing waist-deep in the river, waiting to give us water and food.

  I pull off my hat. I’m dripping sweat and shaking.

  “Why did it take so long? Did you stop for something?” Mom asks as we pull in. The light on her headlamp hits me. “Oh god, Sadie!” She grabs the side of the canoe and pulls it up the boat ramp as Dad tells her about the crash.

  “We’ve got a pretty good crack in the hull,” he says. The boat rocks as he climbs out. “Grab the repair supplies, Sadie.”

  “Forget the boat,” Mom says. “Look at your daughter. She’s covered in blood.”

  “Sadie’s fine.”

  “God, Will. Have you even looked at her?”

  I reach up to touch my face with my left hand, because it hurts too much to move my right. It comes away dark and sticky.

  Between fixing the boat and the pain in my side, neither of us noticed my face.

  Mom takes a dry part of her shirt and wipes my hairline with it, then studies my head in the beam from her headlamp. “It might need a stitch or two,” she says. “Where else do you hurt?”

  “My side,” I say, pointing to the right side of my rib cage. “Pretty sure I cracked something.” I’ve known this since the rock, but I didn’t see any point in saying it out loud. Plenty of people have finished the Odyssey with broken bones.

  I take Mom’s offered hand and climb into the shallows. Dad slides an arm around my waist and they both help me to shore. I sit on the boat ramp, dripping water, and take breath after breath, finding just the right depth so I get oxygen without the stab of pain getting worse.

  “I think we’ve got a butterfly bandage in the first aid kit. That should take care of the cut,” Dad says. “And maybe a bandage tight around the ribs.”

  Dad has paddled with more than one hernia. Stuff it back in and wrap it up, he says. Paddle through the pain.

  “Will, she needs the hospital.” Mom’s voice is cold. Hard.

  Her headlamp illuminates Dad’s face. His jaw is set. “Fine. Take her to the hospital. I’ll fix the boat and put a couple of big rocks in her seat to balance the weight. Call Ginny. She can meet me at the next checkpoint and take over as bank crew.”

  “Forget the race.” Mom’s voice is granite. “This is your daughter. You’re coming to the hospital with us.”

  “It’s a cracked rib and a few stitches. They don’t do anything for cracked ribs. Just make you rest.” His voice has gone cold, too. They’re not usually like this with each other. “This is twenty finishes in a row for me, Nic. I can’t give that up.”

  My insides churn. I’ve failed my dad. I can barely breathe because of the pain. And now my parents are fighting. I hate when they fight.

  “The ribs and the cut are all we know about. She got ejected from the boat. She could have internal injuries.”

  “Sadie, do you have internal injuries?” Dad asks, like it isn’t really possible. How am I supposed to know what’s happening in my gut? Anyway, Scofields probably paddle through internal injuries.

  Mom bends down next to me. “Which side again?”

  I nod toward my right. She lifts the bottom of my shirt and shines her headlamp on me.

  “What do you think now, Will?”

  I look down at the jagged, dark purple bruise that’s erupted on my abdomen, stretching from my bra line to my shorts.

  And I vomit.

  One mega bruise on my side.

  Two cracked ribs.

  Four stitches in my head.

  Three hours in the hospital.

  One nineteen-year Texas River Odyssey streak dead, thanks to me.

  Painkiller-induced sleep in my own bed with my dog at my feet. A midday drive to Seadrift on Monday to watch Tanner finish the race.

  I spend hours snoozing on and off in a reclining lawn chair, the hand from my good side resting on Mazer, my shaggy old golden retriever. He doesn’t leave my side. It’s what I always expected to do when I arrived here on Monday, the third day of the race. Except I expected to be in my wet river clothes dripping with exhaustion and satisfaction and pride at completing the race I waited my whole life to paddle.

  A few people, old family friends, stop by to say things like, “You’ll make it next year” and “Sorry you got hurt” and “I finished with a torn hamstring back in the eighties.” How is that supposed to help?

  I make some small talk, but mostly I sleep. Or pretend to sleep.

  Mom comes to get me when they spot Tanner in the binoculars.

  I sit on the seawall and let my legs dangle down the side. He just canoed 265 miles, from central Texas to the coast. By himself. In fifty-eight hours. It’s not just a respectable time, it’s a good time. He’ll be happy. My heart practically bursts for what he accomplished. When he’s close, I bring my hands t
ogether to clap and try not to think about how Dad and I might have been paddling up to the finish alongside him. That sharp ice-pick pain hits me again, but I keep going. He deserves clapping at the finish. Everyone does.

  When Tanner reaches the finish line, I stand, gingerly, trying to make it hurt as little as possible. He puts a hand on the railing and climbs the stairs out of the water, so unsure on his legs you’d think he was drunk. That’s what fifty-eight hours in a canoe will do to you.

  Dad hops into the water and carries Tanner’s boat up behind him, leaving it on the grass beneath the arch that is the finish line. Mom hugs Tanner, and Dad claps him on the shoulder before pulling him into a hug. I’d go in for a hug, but they’re already taking pictures of Tanner with his paddle and his boat. And then Dad, with his arm around Tanner, his face exploding with pride.

  There’s a hitch in my throat. I might as well be back at the starting line, 265 miles away.

  I return to my chair.

  They line Tanner’s boat up with all the other finishers in order of arrival. As they walk back, Dad pauses to look at Johnny Hink’s six-man boat at the front of the line. Even from here I can read the white vinyl letters on the black hull. NEVER SAY DIE. It must kill Dad to know that his biggest rival took first when we didn’t even finish. But he follows Tanner to the pavilion. My brother settles into a folding chair at a table, with a burger and fries and my dad by his side.

  * * *

  Later, when Tanner has showered and settled into a lawn chair for a nap, Mom and Dad exchange words I can’t make out. Both of their faces are tight. Mom walks away, and Dad shoves his hands deep into his pockets. His face is all hard lines. He walks over and sits in the chair next to me. We’re silent for a few minutes, which isn’t unusual, except that all I can think about is how I let him down.

  “Dad, I’m …” I say, ready to apologize, but he holds a hand up in the air, like he doesn’t want to hear my apology. Like he can’t even stand to hear it.

  He watches the horizon as a speck on the water turns into a canoe, paddling in to the finish. Then he turns his head toward the finish line and the row of finished boats behind it, where ours should have been.

  “We had a good run. Shame we couldn’t make it to the finish together,” he finally says, before he rises from the chair and walks away.