Never Say Die by Will Hobbs Page B

and I broke into a trot on the tundra. What was he doing on what had been “my side” of the river? Hadn’t he planned to wait for me on this side? He said he was going to swim over to the east side, but wasn’t that after we met up again?
    I gradually closed the gap, but by the time I drew even with him across the river, he was angling away from the canyon rim. Ryan was moving slow, and he stumbled. I hollered and hollered, but over the sound of the river he didn’t hear me. He disappeared behind a huge mound of rock that rose above the river.
    I couldn’t lose him again. One of us was going to have to swim the river—and it might as well be me.
    There were breaks here and there in the walls of the shallow canyon. Not very far ahead, a slot between the cliffs would make it easy for me to get down to the water. Directly across, fifty-foot high cliffs rose from the river, but those cliffs ended in fewer than a hundred yards. The riverbank was grassy there, easy to climb out on.
    What about the river—was it swimmable? Its deep, dark green water was more roily than I would have liked, stirred up from falling through the rapid, but the Firth wasn’t very wide here, less than a hundred feet across. The day was warm and sunny. If I swam arm over arm, I wouldn’t be in the water very long.
    This is crazy, I told myself. Not really, I answered back, not if you swim it fast enough. It’s the amount of time you’re in the water that makes it deadly. It’s not that far across, and the river is running as low as it’s going to get. The day is hot and sunny.
    Fish or cut bait , I told myself. After studying the water one more time, I tightened the cinches of my life jacket and dove in.

13
SWAPPING STORIES
    E xpecting the shock of the freezing water and the numbness that followed within seconds, I wasn’t as frightened this time. Crossing the seam between the slower water and the fast, I swam hard to maintain a forty-five-degree angle to the current.
    It turned into more of a battle than I thought I was in for. A boil of water got hold of me and I lost my angle. I found myself headed directly downstream.
    Now I was frightened. No turning back, I told myself. I got my bearings, got my angle back again, and swam harder than before, across the major current and across the seam into the slower water along the eastern shore.
    I could still work my fingers when I got out at the foot of the grassy slope. I’d only been in the water a couple of minutes and I wasn’t hypothermic, not that I wasn’t feeling the chill. My heart was hammering as I climbed that grassy slope, sucking wind as I came over the top.
    No more than fifty feet away, my brother was about to pass by. I barely had the breath left to call his name. “Ryan,” I panted.
    His head jerked in my direction. At first my brother was startled, like he was seeing a ghost. The emotions flooding his face, in his eyes, defy description. Disbelief and joy were battling it out, and joy was winning.
    Then he broke up, really lost it. Broke down and cried. The grief he’d been feeling, I guess, was finding its way out.
    We met in a bear hug, bumping our bulky life jackets, me dripping wet. He looked haggard as could be. I’m sure I didn’t look so good myself—sunburned, bug-bitten, half-starved.
    Ryan’s sunburn was worse than mine, but his lips were okay and he didn’t have very many bites. “Why are you all wet, little brother?”
    â€œI was on the other side of the river—just swam across. Man, it’s good to see you! I was worried out of my skull!”
    â€œSame here! What a mix-up! I swam to your side much sooner than I expected I’d be able to, and you swam to my side. All this time I’ve been looking for you on this side. I was afraid you’d been mauled by a bear, killed by a bear!”
    I was so pumped up with adrenaline and so relieved, I felt giddy.