← Against The Odds
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Wondery subscribers can listen to against the Odds, early and ad free right now. Join Wondery in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. A listener Note against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. Wondria. Gerald Fitz Fitzgerald smiles under a clear blue sky as his wife, Holly, snaps a photo of him at the tiller. Parrots and macaws call out from the trees, and sunlight sparkles on the water. It's February 15, 1973, their first day aboard their homemade raft, the Pink Palace. After a week of building the raft and gathering supplies, they're really doing it. They're gliding down the Madre de Dios river, headed for the Amazon. Holly laughs. It feels like a dream. No schedules, no people. Just us. I've never felt so free. They drift deeper into the unknown, winding their way downstream with the current. By late afternoon, all signs of human life have vanished. No more huts, no smoke. Only dense green jungle rising high on the riverbanks. There aren't even any other boats. I've never been this far from people before. Fitz scans the horizon. The river spreads wide, half a mile of brown water on either side of them. The border post should be coming up soon. They left Puerto Maldonado at noon, hoping to reach the Peru Bolivia, border before dusk. On the map, it's only 40 miles, but with the river's twists and turns, who knows how long it'll take. They keep scanning both banks. They have no idea what the border post even looks like. As the sun drops low and orange, Fitz starts to feel uneasy. He looks over at Holly. It's getting dark. We should pull over for the night. It'll be easier to spot the border in the morning. If we miss it, we'll be in Bolivia illegally, and that's trouble we don't need. They try to steer toward shore, Fitz at the tiller, Holly paddling, but the current fights back. Again and again they get within inches of the overgrown bank until Holly can almost grab onto one of the vines. But each time the river yanks them back to midstream. Sweat drips down Fitz's forehead. It's impossible. We have no goddamn control. He thought they could manage the raft like a boat, but now he knows the river is in charge. It's faster, stronger, and far more powerful than either of them imagined. He can sense Holly's nerves matching his own. They're at the mercy of the Madre. We'll have to keep drifting. Hopefully we'll be able to spot the border hot in the dark. Maybe someone there can pull us in. Fitz studies the map in the fading light. His finger traces the 500 mile winding route toward their destination, the Bolivian town of Riberalta. Then his stomach sinks past the border. The river only widens. If no one helps pull them in at Riberalta, they'll careen straight into crushing whitewater rapids as the last of the light vanishes. All all they can do is hope they spot the border post in the dark and that someone helps them in. From Wondery I'm Cassie depechel and this is against the Odds. In February 1973, newlyweds Fitzgerald and Holly Fitzgerald were traveling through South America. Five months into their year long delayed honeymoon. After traveling across the Andes, they'd set out to catch a boat down the Madre de Dios river, chasing Holly's lifelong dream of seeing the Amazon. But from the start their plan kept veering off course. Their small plane crash landed in a remote Peruvian penal colony and when they finally reached the frontier town of Puerto Maldonado, they discovered there was no scheduled riverboat after all. Rather than stay stranded, they decided to build a raft with the help of locals. Four long balsa logs with a stove and a pink plastic tent on top. They were told the trip would be simple. Just follow the main current downstream for five days and nights and they'd reach Riberalta, where they could hitch a ride into Brazil. But the river had other plans. This is is Episode two Dead End. Zocoro Holly jolts awake inside the tent to Fitz's voice shouting a Spanish word for help outside. Socorro. Socorro. Fitz what is it? We're here at the border. I saw a man lighting a cigarette. I saw his face in the flare of the match. Holly scrambles out of the tent into the pitch black night where Fitz is pointing their flashlight toward the right bank up there. Holly follows his gaze and there it is, a tiny orange flicker between the trees. She joins him, her voice rising with his zocoro. Zocarro. Help. They can hear men shouting in Spanish, running down to the shore. Then without warning. HOLLY get down. Holly dives back into the tent, flat onto the floor as GUNFIRE erupts across the river. Bullets whiz by. One rips straight through the plastic inches from her head. She presses her face down and prays. Help us. Please. They must think we're smugglers trying to run the border. Then the shooting stops, replaced by a new sound. The putt putt of small engines growing louder. A boat slams Hard against the raft. Men shout at them in Spanish. Come out. Order. Holly crawls out of the tent. A beam of light floods her eyes, blinding at first. And then she sees the rifles trained on them from every direction. Two small motorboats are filled with half a dozen border guards, some in Peruvian military uniforms, others in nothing but their underwear. Fitz lies prostrate on the deck with his hands clasped behind his head. Holly's heart pounds. Her mind races. Can't they see we're just tourists? What's going to happen to us? The men shout again, ordering them to grab their bags and get into the nearest boat. They slowly rise to their feet and climb aboard the motorboats as rifles track their every motion. Fitz swallows hard as a rifle muzzle presses against his chest. Even though the weather is calm, the current is so strong it takes both motorboats to push the pink palace to shore. Take your bags and get out. Fitz obeys, helping Holly over the side. He glances back. One guard is tying up their raft, while others leap aboard and start rummaging through their supplies. They're herded up a steep, twisting trail through the jungle and ushered into a dark hut lit by a single flashlight. A guard orders them to sit on the dirt floor. Fitz's stomach tightens as the soldiers unzip their bags and dump everything out. He catches Holly's eyes, wide and terrified. One soldier picks up a small box and shakes it. Tampons spill across the floor. The men laugh, scooping them up and flinging them like darts. Another finds one of Holly's bras and twirls it in the air. Fitz burns with rage. Hey. Put that down. The guard just smirks at him and tosses the bra to his friend. Fitz clenches his fists and shifts closer to Holly, ready to protect her if he has to. Then suddenly, the door slams open. An older officer strides in, wearing a freshly pressed uniform. Immediately, the soldiers snap to attention. The man orders them back to bed, and they rush out. The officer looks Fitz and Holly over and tells them to roll out their sleeping bags. Then he takes their passports and walks out with no explanation, leaving them alone in the darkness. Fitz's heart is still pounding as they unroll the bags and lie down on the cold dirt floor. He puts his arms around Holly. She's trembling against his chest. You okay? Yeah, I'm fine. But those men were scary. He pulls her in closer. Yeah, they were jerks. Don't worry, Hall. I'm not sleeping tonight. Holly holds her breath as she hears boots crunch toward the hut. It's dawn. She and Fitz barely slept, curled together on the dirt floor. The door swings open and two soldiers step in. One hands them each a tin cup of coffee. The other returns their passports. Buenos dias. We're going to escort you across the border now. Holly's stunned. No explanation, no apology. But she doesn't care. Relief floods through her. They grab their backpacks and head back down the steep jungle path, the same one they'd climbed last night. The two guards ferry them a short distance downriver, where they spot the Pink palace tied to a tree. Holly exhales, relieved. On the shore, a Bolivian officer in a khaki uniform introduces himself as the border sergeant. He seems much friendlier than the Peruvian border guards, and Holly feels more at ease. She and Fitz explain their story and their concerns about managing the raft. The sergeant smiles. You'll be fine. It's a straight run to Riberalta from here. What about the rapids? What if there's no one to help bring us in? Someone will help you. Without guns this time. After the sergeant leaves, Fitz turns to her. What do you think? We don't really have another choice, do we? Sergeant seems sure. We'll be fine. Two Bolivian guards help them push the Pink palace back into the current. Fitz checks their ransacked boxes. The machete's gone. I guess it would be worth a lot to someone. Holly grips her paddle. Let's hope we don't need it. As they continue on downriver, Fitz repeats the sergeant's words. It's a straight run to Riberalta. Holly can't tell if his confidence is real or just bravado, but she chooses to believe him. Fitz leans back and smiles as Holly twirls barefoot across the logs, singing Proud Mary at the top of her lungs. It's February 18, their fourth day on the river since the Terror at the border. The Madre de Dios has carried them smoothly and steadily. They're now in paradise, just the two of them, carefree and wildly in love. This is what kids dream about. Holly. She twirls toward him, her long hair flying loose in the breeze. Dance with me. You're crazy. I'll fall on my ass. No, you won't. She grabs his hand and pulls him up. Fitz steadies himself as Holly loops her arms around his neck. She rests her head against his chest and together they sway. Holly look. Suddenly, a swirl of butterflies drift towards them. Red, orange, yellow, purple, glittering in the sunlight. Holly gasps as they settle on her. Wow. You look bejeweled. They laugh and kiss and collapse onto the Uneven logs with their arms wrapped around each other. It's romantic, but not exactly comfortable. I've got a better idea. He takes her hand and leads her into the pink plastic tent, onto the silky sleeping bags. For now, it's perfect. Just love the jungle and the river, rocking them gently. That night, Holly dreams she's on a merry go round, riding up and down on a painted horse. But then the screws come loose. The bolts snap. The carousel tears apart, hurling her into the air. Her eyes snap open. For a moment she thinks she's still dreaming. But no. She's on the raft and it's spinning wildly out of control. Fitz, wake up. She shakes his shoulder. What? It's a storm. The raft lurches side sideways. Fitz crawls to the tent flap and looks out. I can't see a thing. Get back inside. If you fall in, I'll never find you. Oh my God. Holly, watch out. Something slams against the bow. The whole raft lurches sideways. Holly throws her arms over her head just as something massive rips through the plastic and crashes down on top of her. Molly, Are you okay? She's face down, pinned, as rain pelts her through a hole in the tent. Her head feels okay. She can move her fingers and her toes, but she can't get free. I. I think so. But what's holding me down? A damn tree trunk just fell in. Roots are everywhere. Hold on. Cover your eyes. I'm lifting. The roots drag across her back like floss. Stop. Fitz freezes. You've got to get out. Roll backward. Holly tries to shimmy back on her stomach, inch by inch, but her hair is tangled in the roots. I can't. My hair's stuck. Keep coming, Hall. You're almost here. She works strand by strand to free her hair until finally she manages to get herself out. Fitzgerald is bracing his shoulder under the trunk. The raft's tipping. We've got to get this tree off. Holly pushes with him, heaving until it finally slides off into the raging river. They cling to each other as the raft spins helplessly downriver. Minutes later, the storm eases and the madre becomes calm again, as if nothing ever happened. Then we've hit something. The raft is jammed against a tangle of branches near the bank. Finally, we can tie up. She leans out in the darkness and grabs a branch while Fitz fumbles for the rope and loops it around a vine. The raft steadies. They sink back down into the tent and Holly exhales. At least we've landed. The sleeping bags are soaked. The tent is ripped, but she doesn't care. She's beyond exhausted, too tired to even worry about whatever wild animals might creep close now that they're tied to the riverbank. All she wants is to close her eyes and sleep. Tomorrow they'll figure out where they are. Fitz wakes to sunlight warming his face through the hole in the tent. The sky is a dazzling blue. Beside him, Holly's awake. How are you feeling, Holl? Much better, thanks to you. It scared me how close that tree came to crushing your head. They hold each other tightly, a silent moment of relief, before crawling out of the tent to survey the damage. The tent roof is shredded, but the raft itself seems intact. They'll patch it up before setting off again. If all goes well, they'll reach Riberalta by sundown. Right now they're starving. Fitz ducks back into the mangled tent to get some Spam and eggs for breakfast. But as he reaches for the food boxes in the corner, he notices the plastic wall flapping loose behind them, no longer attached to the tent's frame. He takes a closer look, and his stomach drops. Their two food boxes are on their sides, tipped toward the river, and they're almost empty. The food's gone. That goddamn tree knocked it all overboard. What's left is pitiful. A can of tuna, a packet of pea soup powder, a hunk of cheese, a jar of instant coffee, half a cup of sugar, and one can of Carnation milk. Holly looks distraught. That's not even enough for one day. Don't worry. Tonight we'll find a cozy cafe in Riberalta and have a big dinner. They sit on the deck, cradling their coffees, trying to laugh it off. Then Fitz frowns, squinting at the river. Something's off. All around them, trees rise straight out of the water, 10, 15ft high. There's no open bank on the other side, no wide current. The river's slower than usual, and I don't see any land. They peer back behind them under the brush. As far as they can see, everything is partially submerged. There's no sign of solid earth anywhere. Where are we, Fitz? We must be somewhere along the river, right? He shakes his head. I don't think it's the river. It's too damn slow. Holly jumps up. Let's get out of here. We can fix the tent once we find the main current. Fitz pushes off against the brush with the pole while Holly paddles. They pull and string, but the pink palace barely moves. Sweat pours down Fitz's face. The raft feels like dead weight without the usual current. Fitz gives up on steering and instead uses the rudder as a big paddle. Eventually they catch the faintest pull of current, but they have to paddle continuously to keep moving. Something's wrong. Hall. I think the storm blew us off course. We're not on the Madre anymore. It must be a detour. Let's keep going. Remember what Juan said. Any detour will bring us back to the main river. Fitz stares downstream. I don't know. I think we're in some sort of dead end channel or swamp. The water's not moving down there. Please, Fitz, what else can we do? We have to see where it goes. All right. Let's go. Reluctantly, Fitz digs in the blade of his rudder paddle, forcing the Pink palace forward through the flooded jungle. As the bend opens up, hope rises in their chests. In just a few seconds they'll know if they're able to get out. But then it hits like a kick to the stomach. There's no opening. No sign of the Madre. No land. Just an impenetrable wall of jungle vegetation and trees submerged in thick brown water. Last night's storm has swept them down the river to nowhere. Fitz says nothing as the raft drifts in eerie silence. This isn't a detour. It's a trap. How can they possibly escape? Their raft only goes one way and they've run out of river. Holly pulls hand over hand along the trees, clawing at reeds and vines, anything she can grab to drag the Pink palace back through the swamp. They're fighting against the current, which isn't as strong as the main river, but it's strong enough. Their 8 by 16 foot raft was never meant to travel upstream. They left the dead end around maybe 2 o' clock, judging by the sun, hoping to find the Madre de Dios before sundown. But several hours had passed and they'd made little headway. Then the sky opens up. We've got to paddle her in. I'm trying to. Fitz flings the rope over a low branch and hauls the Pink palace in beneath the shrubs. They're hungry, soaked and shivering, but they work fast, nailing an extra sheet of plastic over the tent frame. Their hammer went overboard in the storm, so they use one of Holly's wooden clogs instead. When they're done, they shove the soggy sleeping bags aside and collapse inside the tent. Holly curls into Fitz's chest, holding him tight. I'm scared. Me too. Holly's eyes well up as she tries to block out the heavy thumping and low growls coming from the trees. This certainly Isn't the river adventure she had in mind when she'd pictured them like Huck and Jim? Funny, just two years ago, her idea of being trapped meant being stranded at home in the country without a car. She had no idea. The next morning, Fitz crouches by the stove, stirring green powder into a pot of boiling swamp water treated with iodine drops. He and Holly sip the thin pea soup carefully, using their teeth to strain out bits of mud, leaves, and twigs. As they sit, they weigh their options. The raft can't be paddled any farther, so they can either stay with the Pink palace and pray to be rescued or swim up the channel in search of the main river and land. Fitz starts thinking aloud. We should probably stay put in case they send a plane to look for us. A pilot would spot the raft better than two swimmers. Besides, the madre could be a mile away, or 20. We should conserve our energy. Holly nods. Yeah. And remember the parasite swan told us about the candiru? What the hell was that? You don't think it's a caiman, do you? The giant alligator, like caiman, can grow over 15ft long. Far too big to fend off with their hands or the small pocket knife. They also read about the piranhas, electric eels, anacondas, and stingrays that swim here. Fitz size. The machete would have come in handy right about now. Maybe we could have cut down a tree and hacked it into a canoe. Then we wouldn't have to swim at all. It seems safer to stay put on the raft. But what if no one ever comes? We have hardly any food. They go back and forth for nearly an hour. Look. Hull. I think the best thing is for me to swim to land. Bring back help. There's gotta be a village somewhere. Hold on. We're doing this together, like everything else. Fitz thinks there's no point in both of them dying. But he also knows he won't be able to convince her. Okay, we'll both swim. They stare at the brown, murky water in silence. Look, Fitz, those logs. If they're not rotten, maybe we can use them like floats. Great idea. He stands, scanning the dead branches in the swamp where she's pointing. Then his eyes go wide. A raft. About 40ft away. The tops of three or four logs break the surface. A small raft, half submerged in the muck. They could use it to go up the channel instead of swimming. It's much smaller than theirs. It would be easier to maneuver against the current. Holly throws her arms around him, laughing for a moment. They feel overjoyed. But Then Fitz's smile fades as the realization sinks in. To reach the small raft, he's going to have to swim. Holly watches nervously as Fitz ties a long vine around his waist and hands her the other end. If something grabs me, pull hard. She nods, twisting the vine around her hand, even though they both know she could never pull him free from a caiman's jaws. Wish me luck. Be careful. Fitz slips into the water. Thick mud, algae, and slime swirl around him. Holly scans the surface, her heart pounding. Every stick, every swaying plant looks like a snake. He pushes through the branches and debris, inching toward the tiny raft. If he scratches himself and starts bleeding, piranhas could strike in seconds. Are you okay? Yes. He drags himself over a dead tree branch and reaches the little raft, then raises an arm in triumph. I made it. But it's jammed tight in the muck. Fitz plunges under. Holly holds her breath. Seconds stretch into eternity. Then he bursts up. I got it. Pull the mine. In a tug of war with the current, Holly yanks the vine while Fitz pushes the raft through the branches. Finally, he makes it back, and she helps drag him aboard. Her muscles are burning. His hands are shaking as he unties the vine from his waist. After a few minutes of rest, they decide to try out the new raft. It's about 2ft by 4ft, just a few crooked logs held together by nailed boards. It's clumsy to steer, but it keeps them above the water and away from predators. They share what's left of the cheese and collapse in the tent. As daylight fades, Holly writes in her journal, maybe for the last time, scared. Please give us the strength to get out of here. Please don't let us get sick. Or worse. I'll kiss the river if I ever see her again. She won't be able to bring her journal or her camera or Fitz's typewriter. They can only bring what they need to survive. But if they don't make it, maybe someone will find the journal and tell their families what happened. Tomorrow they'll try to escape. Fitz digs his paddle deep into the brown water. His arms burn, and sweat drips down his face. Beside him, Holly fights the current, timing her strokes with his. If they don't keep paddling in tandem, the raft will spin backward. It's late afternoon on February 21, their third day in the swamp. Earlier that morning, they'd woken before dawn. Breakfast was the last can of tuna, barely enough to quiet at their hunger. They packed only a few items into Holly's waterproof camera bag, passports, travelers checks, Water purifying tablets and the last of their food. They found a pair of driftwood planks to use as paddles more suitable for the tiny raft, and left the relative safety of the marsh. Now they've been paddling for hours, but there's still no sign of the madras or solid ground. They're beyond exhausted. Fitz scans the muddy maze. How far have they gone? Are they even making much progress? The sun's dropping fast and there's no way they can sleep on the tiny raft. We'll have to find a tree, something strong enough to hold us. They round another bend and there it is. A tall pack, pale trunk rising from the greenery. Come on, Holly. Let's check it out. They moor the raft against the trunk. Holly scrambles up first, testing each branch. It's strong. Fitz hesitates. Heights have always rattled him, even after nine parachute jumps in Vietnam. He climbs slowly. Above, he hears Holly sigh. I can't believe it. What? I can still see the pink Palace. I never said we'd make it out today. We'll rest and try again tomorrow. As darkness falls, they straddle the widest branches, wrapping vines around themselves to keep from falling. It's their first night without shelter. No plastic roof, no mosquito net. No barrier between them and whatever lurks below. Fitz. What was that? I think it might be a jaguar. The screech echoes again, closer. What if it leaps? Climbs the tree? It'll be all right, Holly. Let's try and get some sleep. I love you. I love you too. Fitz closes his eyes. This isn't his first time sleeping, sitting up in the jungle. In Vietnam, he'd trained himself to fall asleep, tuning out the danger all around him. If he hadn't, he never would have made it home. He tells himself what he's told himself many times before. Survive the night. Tomorrow will come. It has to. Holly's eyes flutter open to the sound of a distant hum. She's still in the tree, tangled in vines, 10ft above the dark water below. Fitz, wake up. Do you hear that? What? It's a motorboat. Someone's out there. Maybe they're looking for us. Help. Zakaro. It's gone. For a moment they stay silent, listening, hoping it'll come back. Then Fitz looks up at her from his perch below. If there's a motorboat, that means civilization can't be far, right? Yeah. We must be close to the madre. They climb down from the tree and onto their half submerged raft. Breakfast is a teaspoon of sugar and a pinch of dried soup. Chased with a gulp of water from their canteen. Then, already aching from yesterday's struggle, they start up the channel again. Holly gets an idea. She loops their rope into a lasso and Fitz hurls it toward a branch ahead. It catches. They pull themselves forward against the current. It's working. Fitz throws and pulls. Holly paddles. They're exhausted and hungry, yet hopeful. They're making real progress. Overhead, the sky darkens and in an instant, the clouds burst open, pelting them with rain like a BB gun. This is horrible. God almighty. Sheets of rain slam down on them, washing away whatever hope they had that morning. They have to fight like hell just to stay in place. Waves surge through the logs of their little raft. Then the current catches it and they start spinning backward, out of control. Stop us. This. Stop us. I'm trying. I'm trying. They claw for anything. Branches, vines, roots. As they spin downstream, they lose half the distance they've gained since morning. Finally, they grab a half submerged tree and cling to it with numb hands as the storm rages around them. Hold on. Hold on. We can't do this, Holly. It's insanity. I don't want to give up. We'll be back where we started. Her fingernails dig into the bark. The river, the storm. Everything is trying to tear them loose. Her arms shake, strength slipping away. She can't accept defeat. She thought if they gave it everything, they'd make it out. Letting go means being swept back. Back to the Pink Palace. Back to a slow death, stranded in the jungle. Images flash through her mind. Her mom singing cowboy songs on road trips. Her dad fixing the tent on their wedding day. Their dog Zelda playing in the the yard. She has to hold on for them. Holly locks her hands around the tree, refusing to let go as another wave smashes over the tiny rack. We can't go back. Not after we find fought so hard. If we go back now, then what was the point? I don't know. Her arms shake and her fingers begin to slip one by one. Then Fitz loses hold too. They crash back onto the raft, clutching the slick logs as it spins downstream. Rain and wind sting their faces as they fly past every landmark they fought so hard to reach. I'm sorry, Fitz. For what? For pushing us to go by raft. I didn't know we could get lost. It's not your fault, Holly. I wanted to do it too. We're in this together. The current begins to calm. The rain slows to a drizzle, and soon the Pink palace comes into view near the end of the channel. They tie up the small raft next to it and pull themselves back aboard. As disappointed as Holly is, she also feels a strange relief. The Pink palace is the closest thing to solid ground in this endless, flooded jungle. She lies back on the logs and closes her eyes, too exhausted to speak. We're alive. That's good enough, she thinks. Holly, look. Her eyes snap open just as a small twin prop plane bursts through the clouds from the west, flying low, straight toward them. Holly's heart leaps. Maybe God guided them back to the Pink palace to be found. They scramble to their feet, waving and shouting with everything they have. Over here. Over here. Over here. But the plane doesn't dip, doesn't circle. It just passes by and vanishes as quickly as it appeared. They stand frozen, staring at the empty sky, waiting, hoping it will turn back. But the only sound left is their own ragged breathing. Fitz crouches by the little stove, stirring a pot of coffee. Anything to keep his despair at bay. Every muscle in his body aches. Shoulders, legs, even jaw. His jeans hang loose, so he's tied a length of rope around his waist just to keep them up. It's February 23rd, their fifth day trapped. He still can't believe that plane passed over them yesterday. He'd been so sure it was for them. He thinks back to Thanksgiving Day, 1968 in Vietnam, when an artillery shell landed right at his feet. It should have killed him, but it failed to explode. Three months later, he was hit by shrapnel, and still he survived. He had a reputation in his unit for being lucky, but size? He could sure use a little luck right now. Holly staggers out of the tent like a drunken sailor, barely able to keep her balance. Everything hurts. I feel sick. It's from not eating. Here, this will help. He passes her a cup of coffee. They sit together in silence. Yesterday they'd been running on adrenaline. Now there's nothing left. Holly reaches for his hand. We need to hold on to hope. If we do, we've got a chance. People have survived all sorts of things. Fitz nods. What's the name of that psychoanalyst you're always talking about? Viktor Frankl. Yeah, him. Holly reminds him about Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning, about how he survived the Nazi concentration camps by clinging to hope so tightly it gave him a reason to live. I've helped clients find hope in the smallest places and build on it. Now we need to do that. Fitz knows she's right. If a plane came yesterday, maybe another will come today. Holly perks up. Let's make a big SOS sign out of the extra pink plastic. When they come back, they'll see it for sure. First they take an inventory of the last of their food. The can of evaporated milk, the final bit of powdered soup, and a handful of sugar. Fitz decides to save the milk as a last ditch emergency. They sip the last of their hot, sweet green soup, then get to work cutting three giant letters from the leftover plastic. Their hands shake, they're so weak, but it feels good to do something. When they finish, they arrange the massive SOS across the open locks. It fills them with renewed strength. Who can miss pink letters like this? It's only a matter of time before we're out of here. While they wait, Fitz rigs up the fishing line with one of their large hooks, baiting it with algae, the only thing he can find. Holly paddles the little raft along the tree line, looking for anything edible. The hours crawl by. The sun drifts lower, but there's still no plane and no fish. They break down and open the can of evaporated milk, the last of their food other than two teaspoons of sugar. It's creamy and delicious, the most calories they've had in days. But it's nowhere near enough. Holly wakes at dawn, weak from hunger, thinking of the other time she had to fight her way out. The time she hitchhiked in college and was left stranded on the roadside. The time she fell into a bog and sank up to her neck, saved only when a friend tossed her a belt to pull her free. But nothing compares to this. It's been two days since they made the SOS sign, and the plane hasn't returned. They've still had no luck catching any fish, and they're getting weaker by the day. Holly sits up, dizzy but determined, and suddenly knows what they have to do. She shakes Fitz awake. We have to try again, but this time we'll have to swim out. She talks it through, thinking out loud. The small raft is too heavy, too clumsy. But if they each take a single log for support, maybe, just maybe, they can fight their way upstream. It's a gamble. They don't have a rifle or a machete. No protection from predators. But what else can they do? Sit here and wait to die? Fitz doesn't hesitate. Okay. They make one last pot of coffee. Then Fitz dismantles the smaller raft, prying out nails with a stick until they have two four foot logs, one for each of them. They can't take much, only their money belts stuffed with passports, traveler's checks and purification tablets all wrapped tight in plastic. Fitz straps the canteen to his waist. The sun is already blazing. They say goodbye to the pink palace once again and slide into the water. The water is worn and thick like soup. Mud and slime swirl around Holly's legs. She shudders at the thought of what might be swimming beneath her. This is it, their final desperate effort to reach the river. They wrap their arms around the log and start kicking, staying close together. Though weaker, they're moving faster, swimming than they ever did paddling. The sun shimmers on the water. The current is mild and the breeze gentle. Fitz's blue eyes glint behind his glasses, now tied around his head with a string. He looks bronzed and muscular, though thinner. For the first time in days, it feels like nature is on their side, and Holly feels a flicker of excitement. They might actually make it. Fitz clutches a handful of reeds and drags himself forward, one arm hooked tight around his log. Every pull burns. They've been at it for hours, shifting between swimming and clawing their way through the brush. Slimy things brush their legs, but so far nothing's attacked by late afternoon. They passed familiar landmarks. Log jams. They'd rested at the tree they'd slept in days before. As they venture farther upstream, the channel narrows and the current grows stronger. You okay, Holly? Cramping. You thirsty? They grabbed grab onto a clump of willowy stalks to rest. Holly tips the canteen carefully toward Fitz's mouth. Then he does the same for her. They freeze, scanning the murky surface for snakes or caimans. That was a big splash. Let's keep moving. They continue swimming slowly, keeping their eyes ahead. As the sky turns pink and yellow. They search for a place to rest. There's gotta be an inlet somewhere. Pile of driftwood. Anything? They look ahead. Nothing. What's that over there? About 20 yards away, a few logs rise vertically, just three or four feet above the surface. They drag themselves toward them. They're just trunks of long dead trees with stubby limbs. But there's something. I'm going to see if I can pull any of them loose to make us a platform. He dives under and manages to yank three logs to the surface, each one about 7ft long. He wedges them between two upright stumps to create a log jam just wide enough for them both to lie on. This should be better than sleeping in a tree. Their platform is slightly slimy, uneven and sharp. But they stretch out, grateful to be horizontal again. Oh, God, no. Once again, the sky explodes, unleashing torrential rain lightning flashes, turning the sky white. Bolts strike the water so close to them. Fitz feels the thunder slam through his chest. They curl into fetal position, trembling on the logs with their hands over their ears, praying for it to stop. Eventually, the storm eases and darkness settles in, but with it a new threat. Two yellow eyes appear just yards away, glowing like coals above the water's surface. Fitz. Holly digs her nails into his arm. He doesn't flinch. I know. If it happens, I just hope it'll be fast. I can't believe you just said that. What can we do? We have to stop thinking about what we can't control. They look away from the glowing eyes and cling to each other. It's their most vulnerable night yet. They're at water level, utterly exposed with their feet dangling like bait. All they can do is hold on and pray harder than ever that no caiman will surge out of the black water with snapping jaws. That morning will come and they'll still be alive. If you like against the odds, you can binge all episodes early and ad free right now by joining Wondery in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad free on Amazon Music and and before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey@wondering.com survey this is the second episode of our three part series Madre de Dios Stranded in the Amazon. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this story, we recommend the book Ruthless River Love and Survival by Raft on the Amazon's Relentless Madre de Dios by Holly Fitzgerald. I'm your host, Cassie Depechel. Rachel Matlow wrote this episode. Sound design by Rob Schieliga. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Original theme music Scott Velasquez and 2K for frees on sync Produced by Emily Frost. Managing producer is Desi Blaylock. Senior producers are Andy Herman and Austin Rackless. Executive producers are Jenny Laura Beckman and Marsha Louie. For Wondering.