← 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. Wondry. Holly Fitzgerald cuts a photo of the Amazon river out of a National Geographic Magazine. It's January 1971. She's only a month into marriage, and already she feels restless. Her husband, Fitz, works long hours, driving their one working car to his job as a newspaper reporter in Danbury, Connecticut. That leaves Holly stranded in their small house out in the country. No tv, no one to talk to, just the hum of the fridge and a ticking clock. She fills her days mailing out resumes, walking the dog, and pasting clippings of far off places into her scrapbook. She's 25, freshly graduated with a master's in counseling, but lately she feels more like a puppy waiting for her husband to come home. This isn't the life she imagined. A year and a half earlier, she'd been Holly Conklin, celebrating her 24th birthday in Boston when her friend Jane showed up with a guest, Gerald Fitzgerald, who introduced himself simply as Fitz. He was tall, with an easy smile and curly hair. He had just gotten back from Vietnam and was full of stories that had everyone laughing and hanging on his every word. Holly was instantly drawn in. Their first date led to a whirlwind romance. She finished grad school. He landed his first newspaper job. Eighteen months after meeting, they said, I do. Now, just weeks into married life, Holly feels the walls closing in. That evening, when Fitz walks through the door, she sits him down at their Formica table. I don't want to settle down right away. I want adventure first. I want to grow. What about our honeymoon? We could go somewhere warm. A beach vacation. Holly glances down at her stack of National Geographics. She's been collecting them since she was a kid. No, Fitz, I don't want just a regular honeymoon. I want a real adventure. I want to travel around the world. Fitz leans back in his chair, thinking, then smiles. Okay. I do like an adventure, and it's been a while since I've traveled for fun. Holly's heart skips. She reaches for her scrapbook and flips it open. We'll start in South America. Look. The Amazon River. It's always been my dream to see it with my own eyes. It'll be the adventure of a lifetime. In that moment, the plan is set. They'll both work hard for at least a year, maybe two, and save up for what they start calling their delayed honeymoon. From wondery I'm Cassie Depechel, and this is against the Odds. In September of 1972, newlyweds Fitz and Holly Fitzgerald left their comfortable home in Connecticut for a year long honeymoon around the world. They had sketched out a rough itinerary. Start out in South America and backpack across Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia. And most exciting of all, take a riverboat deep into the Amazon rainforest. Along the way, Fitz would send dispatches home to his paper and Holly would take the photographs for his readers. He pitched the column as local newlywed couple on a low budget trip around the globe. But five months in, their dream adventure would take a devastating turn, carrying them deep into the jungle and into a desperate fight for survival against the river, against the wilderness, and against their own limits. This is episode one, Delayed Honeymoon. Fitz braces himself as the crowd shoves him from behind. He and his wife, Holly, are jammed in line at the airport ticket counter in Pucallpa, a jungle town in eastern Peru. It's chaos. Elbows flying, people shouting and cutting ahead. This is insane, Holly. I know. It's like rugby out here. It's February 5, 1973. Flights have been grounded in Pucallpa for a week because of the relentless rain. Now that it's finally letting up, half the town seems to be here, desperate for tickets out. For Fitz and Holly, it's deja vu. Yesterday they'd been first in line until people slid past them. By the time they reached the counter, every seat was gone. This time they can't afford to miss out again. They landed in South America four months ago after working two jobs each for a year and a half. They've already traveled through Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru, where they wandered the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu. Christmas was spent in Bolivia. Now they're back in Peru, chasing Holly's lifelong dream to see the Amazon. But time is running out. They need to reach Puerto Maldonado, near the Bolivian border, where a single commercial riverboat is set to depart in 10 days. It's the first step of their journey east across the continent. If they miss the boat, there won't be another one for months. Fitz glances down at Hollywood, who's getting tossed around like A football. At 6 foot 1, he at least towers above the crowd. It's okay, Holly. I got this. Normally he's chivalrous, the kind of guy who'd step aside and let others go first. But not today. When a burly couple tries to muscle past. Fitz plants his feet and spreads his arms wide. Sweat drips down his face as he finally reaches the counter and asks in broken Spanish, dos boletos, Puerto Maldonado, por favor. At last the clerk slides two tickets across for a flight leaving in five days. Yes, we got him. They hold hands, laughing triumphantly as they splash through puddles on their way back to their tiny hotel room. Back inside, Fitz hunches over his portable Corona typewriter, clacking out his latest dispatch for the Danbury News Times about two American anthropologists who'd invited them to visit an isolated indigenous tribe deep in the jungle. The chief was welcoming even though his people had been decimated by white land grabbers. Across the room, Holly lies on the bed writing a letter on blue aerogram paper. I'm telling my parents not to worry if they don't hear from us for a few weeks. Good idea. I'll write to mine too. He finishes his dispatch, then types a short letter to his editor letting him know this will be his last story for a while. There won't be a post office where they're headed. Fitz glances at the dog eared South American handbook on the table, their trusted bible on the road. Once they fly south to Maldonado, they'll boat down the Madre de Dios River, a wild tributary of the Amazon, all the way to the Bolivian town of Riberalta. Then they'll hitchhike into Brazil and catch another riverboat into the heart of the Amazon. If all goes well, they'll reach the coast by early March, just in time for Carnival. Fitz looks up at Holly. Her long auburn brown hair falls across her face as she writes. He feels lucky to be here with her, on the edge of something new. Before the war, he'd hitchhiked from New York to San Francisco with nothing but a backpack, but eight months in Vietnam had hardened him. Now he feels light again and excited for whatever's waiting out there in the jungle. Holly buzzes with anticipation as she steps back into the rustic jungle airport. It's early morning on February 7th. Departure day at last. Ever since she was a kid, she's dreamed of seeing the Amazon river, and now it finally feels within reach. The airport is as hot and crowded as ever as Holly and Fitz inch forward in line. When they hand their paper tickets to the airline clerk, he barely looks up before explaining the problem. The small twin engine plane can carry only 13 passengers, and around them at least 20 people are holding tickets. But we booked this flight. The clerk just shakes his head and tells him to wait by the exit door. Through the window, Holly studies the aircraft baking on the dirt Runway. A faded olive green DC3, left over from the US Army. Fitz leans close, peering over her shoulder. That's the same kind of plane I jumped out of in Vietnam. Holly lets out a nervous laugh. Let's hope we won't be jumping out of this one. The clerk opens the door and waves them through. Holly and Fitz sprint across the airstrip with their packs bouncing against their backs. They're nearly the last to board, but they make it. The cabin is stripped bare, just metal benches bolted to the sides. They sit down on one side, leaning against the fuselage, and buckle themselves in. Everyone's speaking Spanish or Quechua, the local indigenous language. Holly and Fitz are the only foreigners. This clearly isn't a tourist flight. Most of the passengers are young men wearing straw hats and work shirts. Across from them sits a middle aged woman in a shiny polka dot dress with strands of fake pearls around her neck. As the propeller starts to humor, Holly squeezes Fitz's hand. Part nerves at how remote they're going, part pure thrill. Fitz leans over and kisses the top of her head. The plane rattles down the Runway. Faster, faster, then lurches into the sky. Holly presses her face to the window and gasps. Below her, a rolling ocean of green stretches all the way to the horizon. They're flying deeper into the unknown. No roads, no towns. Just a dense canopy of trees laced with brown rivers. Wow. We're really doing it. She pulls out her Pentax camera and loads a fresh roll of film, ready to capture it all. Fitz adjusts his glasses as he stares at the map from their guidebook. The plane keeps jerking up and down, making it hard to focus. Across THE aisle, someone vomits into a bag. The aircraft rattles and bucks again. He looks over at Holly, following her gaze out the window. They're circling low above the trees. Real low. FITZ Are we landing already? I don't know. I don't see a town anywhere. Suddenly the nose dips hard and everyone's thrown sideways. Holly grabs Fitz's arm. Across the aisle, the woman in pearls holds a gold cross to her chest, whispering a prayer. FITZ what's happening? I don't know. The jungle opens into a rough strip of grass beside a muddy river. No Runway lights, no buildings, just grass and water. They drop down even lower, skimming the treetops. Bags tumble down the aisle. FITZ we're coming in too fast to land. Fitz squeezes her hand as the wheels slam hard onto the ground. The plane skids Fishtailing toward the river. Passengers scream. Fitz presses his feet to the floor. He's not breaking. At the last second, the pilot yanks the plane left and it plows into the jungle. Branches scrape the windows. The right wing shears clean off the left. Propeller screeches like a blender before the plane. Plane SLAMS to a stop. For a long beat, no one moves. Everyone's stunned, but alive. Then suddenly, all 13 passengers leap up at once, grab their bags and scramble for the exit. Fitz grabs both backpacks while Holly holds her camera bag and his typewriter. The plane is slumped to one side, so they slide out the door, down to the ground. The heat rushes over them. Fitz studies himself and looks at Holly. Come on, let's get out of here. This thing could blow. They stumble across the soggy grass, ducking under a swirl of smoke and dust about 50ft away. They stop to catch their breath. When they turn back, they get a full view of the wreck. The entire right wing and engine are gone. The landing gear is twisted sideways, its wheels torn away. Holly raises her camera, aiming it at Fitz with the wreckage behind him. They'll never believe this at home. Holly, this isn't the time for pictures. Let's go. They have no idea where they are. They just follow the other passengers across the muddy field toward the river. Fitzgerald turns to a man in a straw hat trudging along beside them. Esto Puerto Maldonado. The man shakes his head. Finally, they reach the bank of the river and drop their packs on the ground around them. The other passengers look just as confused and sweaty as they are. There's no shade, no breeze, and no one seems to be in charge. Fitz wraps his arms around Holly and exhales. We're so lucky. I can't believe we all made it. She trembles against him. What do we do now? Fitz doesn't have an answer. He just holds her close, standing there in the thick, humid air, wondering what comes next. Holly clings to Fitz, still shaken, still stunned. Then she hears something. A low rumble through the trees. Look. A man in a small wooden boat appears, waiting for them to climb aboard. No one knows what's happening. They just follow his lead. He ferries the passengers, four at a time, across the muddy river. When they reach the far bank, Holly expects to see someone waiting. Maybe an airline official. But there's no one. They clamber up the steep embankment and follow the others down a narrow trail into the jungle. At a bend in the path, they spot a man hacking at vines with a machete. The others keep walking. But Holly and Fitz stop. Hola. The man grins, half his teeth missing, and asks them in Spanish if they'd like to put their bags in his wheelbarrow. Relieved, they drop them in. What a nice man. Maybe he came to help when he saw the crash. Yeah, maybe. The man grips the handles and sets off fast down the trail. They hurry to keep up. Fitz calls out, senor, what's the name of this place? Seppa Sepa. The man talks some more, but Holly can't understand him. Finally, he stops and drops the wheelbarrow. He spins, spreads his legs apart, shoots one arm forward and pulls the other back, then thrusts it forward. Holly laughs. He's miming a bow and arrow. The man speaks rapidly, repeating two words. Siete flechas. Siete plechas. Fitz fumbles for their pocket dictionary, flipping through the pages. His face drains of color. I think he's saying he tied his sister to a tree and killed her with seven arrows. You're kidding. Let me see that. Before she can, the man starts moving again. They keep following until the jungle opens into a massive rectangular field lined with gray buildings. The man points ahead. Sepa. Holly looks around. Something's off. It doesn't look like the other villages they've seen. No bright colors, no signs of life across the fields. The other passengers are milling about. Fitz points to a sign cemented into the ground. Look. What does it say? Holly squints, reading carefully. Welcome to Cepa National Penal Colony of Peru. She reads it again. Her stomach drops. They hadn't landed near a town at all. The plane crash landed on the airstrip of a federal prison. Fitz reaches for coins to thank the man, but a guard appears, shouting, don't give him money. He's a prisoner. The man pockets the coins anyway and bolts back down the trail. Fitz and Holly exchange a stunned look. It hits them. The man's story, his mimed bow and arrow. He really had killed his sister. The guard gestures at their bags. Vaminos, take your things. Follow me. While he leads them across the fields, Polly sidles up to him. Why was that prisoner walking around like a free man? The guard shrugs. The jungle is a prison. No need for walls. No one can escape. Fitz stops, aghast. But he had a machete. The prisoners work. They need machetes to hold back the jungle. Then, almost casually, the guard adds, there are no roads out. The airfield's too wet for another plane to land, and no one knows when it'll be dry enough. Holly and Fitz lock eyes again as the reality sinks in. They're prisoners now, too. Holly wakes to the sound of rain tapping on the metal roof of the barracks, a large cement room lined with rows of bunk beds. It's February 8, 1973, her first morning inside a Peruvian prison. She sighs. That steady patter above her head means one thing. No plane will be coming today. She didn't get much sleep. Fitz drifted off easily, but she stayed awake, nervous, listening to a jaguar prowling outside the barracks. She's grateful for the thick concrete walls keeping it out. And the prisoners, too. Last night they learned CEPA is home to Peru's most dangerous criminals. Murderers, rapists, armed robbers. Hopefully, they won't be here long. Her thoughts move on to a more immediate problem. Fitz, you wanna go on an outhouse date with me? Thought you'd never ask. At the doorway, a guard hands them a long wooden stick. Here, take this. Bang it on the ground while you walk. Scur out the snakes. They make their way down a muddy path. Prisoners in ragged clothes hack back the jungle with machetes. Some pause to watch them, curious, a few leer. Holly smells the outhouse before she sees it. Fitz stands guard outside while she goes in. Inside, there's just a hole cut into a wooden box for a seat. The stench is overwhelming. She gags, trying to hurry as sweat drips down her face. She stumbles out, gulping in the fresh air. Ugh. I'm going in the bushes from now on. It can't be that bad. While Fitz takes his turn, Holly watches the prisoners at work swinging their machetes. She can't help thinking about the difference between their lives. She and Fitz both grew up comfortably with loving families. Her father is an architect. Her mom's a sculptor. She and Fitz have degrees and passports. Until this trip, she never really understood how fortunate she was, how she'd taken so much for granted. Homesickness creeps in. She starts to regret the letter she wrote to her parents, the one assuring them not to worry if they didn't hear from her for a while at breakfast. Tempers are rising. Some of their fellow passengers are getting desperate. They have jobs and families to return to. The woman, still wearing her mud stained polka dot dress and pearls, is fuming. My husband will have your heads if you don't get me home soon. She rattles off his high status credentials, but the guards only shrug. The weather is not in our hands. Holly and Fitz exchange a worried look. They feel it too, that creeping sense of panic. Their boat leaves from Puerto Maldonado in just three days. If another plane doesn't come soon, they'll miss it. Fitz trudges down the narrow jungle path with his backpack on and typewriter under his arm. It's February 10th, their fourth day in Sapapino colony. Four days of eating rice with bits of canned tuna. Four days of living among thieves and killers. Four days of waiting. The rain has finally stopped, and word is a plane might be coming today. He tries not to get his hopes up as he and Holly join the other passengers slogging back toward the airstrip. They've heard that before. Yesterday, when the sun came out, they were told to pack their bags and get ready to depart. Everyone cheered. They thanked the guards and hauled their luggage down the trail and across the river to the airfield. They waited three hours in the blazing heat before they were finally told that no plane would be coming. It still wasn't dry enough, the guards said. As they reach the field again, Fitz's eyes fall on the carcass of their old plane, still twisted in the grass like a mangled spider, a grim reminder of their close call. Then they hear it. A plane circling overhead. Everyone looks up and waits in silence. When the wheels finally slam onto the ground, the crowd erupts in applause. But as the plane taxis closer, the excitement fades. It's identical to the one that crashed, with the same olive green paint and the same rattling propellers. They climb aboard and take their seats on the same metal benches. Fitz and Holly sit side by side with their hands locked tight. For the next two hours, the cabin is silent except for the drone of the engines and the the sound of whispered prayers. Fitz and Holly keep their hands clasped and their eyes shut the entire flight. Neither of them dares to look out the window. The wheels hit hard, but this time they stay upright. The plane shudders to a stop, and Fitz exhales. They've made it to Puerto Maldonado. After four days as prisoners, they're finally free. Holly walks with purpose through the unpaved streets of Puerto Maldonado. Wood shacks line the road. Chickens wander in and out of doorways. She and Fitz are on a mission to secure tickets for the riverboat to Riberalta. They already said goodbye to the other passengers and dropped off their bags in a cheap room above a tavern. It's rustic but private, with a toilet that flushes. After three nights in the prison barracks, it feels like luxury. From the top of a hill, they can see the Rio Madre de Dios shimmering in the distance. It's the majestic river they've been chasing ever since this whole journey began the gateway to the Amazon. They enter a small office by the port where a man in a crisp coat, khaki shirt, looks up from his desk. He's the harbor master. Holly approaches him. Two tickets for the boat to Riberalta, please. Manana. The officer seems puzzled, not at Holly's broken Spanish, but at the request itself. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands. There are no passenger boats to Bolivia. Holly stares, not sure if she's understood. No. Our guidebook says there's a bow every three months. We planned our trip around it. She flips open the handbook and shows him the printed departure dates and times. The officer glances at it, then shakes his head. It's a mistake. There are no schedules. Just one man who sometimes travels that way to visit his family. But he already left two weeks ago. Holly feels the blood drain from her face. All that planning. All that waiting. Fitz looks pale, too. What about flights to Bolivia? The officer shakes his head again. There's not much traffic between Peru and Bolivia. The only flight goes back to Pucallpa, where you came from, and only once a month. Holly feels her stomach drop. In all their months on the road, all the hiccups and close calls, she's never felt this defeated. Her dream of reaching the Amazon has all but slipped away. They decide to get something to eat and think about what to do next. At a crowded cafe near the square, they slump into wooden chairs and drown their sorrows in plates of steak, boiled potatoes, fried tomatoes, and bananas. What do we do now, Fitz? If we wait for someone to take us down downriver, we could be here for months. Maybe we turn around, go back the way we came. Holly shakes her head. We'd have to wait three weeks just to get a flight to Bacalpa. I think we can forget about carnival. Holly drops her head in her hands. Here they are, stuck again. No roads, no boats, no way forward. Then, out of nowhere, they hear a voice in clear English. Excuse me, please. They both look up at the next table. A debonair man in a spotless white suit gets up from his seat. He looks to be in his 50s, with salt and pepper hair. He introduces himself as Juan Nebenschwander, a gold prospector from the area who once worked in Chicago. I couldn't help overhearing your problem. Have you thought about maybe building a raft? Going down the river on it? Holly lights up. Her first thought isn't fear, it's wonder. The river. Freedom. Adventure. But Fitz is frowning. Build a raft? We don't know the first thing about that is it even safe? Juan just smiles. There's nothing to it. I came here myself on a raft from upriver. He pulls up a chair, lights his pipe pipe and explains that in this part of Peru, rafts are more common than boats. It's the true way of traveling the river. Fitz shakes his head. They don't look very sturdy. Then make a bigger one. Build it to fit your needs. You could even make it comfortable with a platform, a tent and a little stove. Your own floating home. Holly can see the doubt on Fitz's face, but to her it sounds incredible. She pictures them drifting down the river like something out of Huckleberry Finn. It could be fun. Fitz doesn't look convinced, but Holly leans in, pressing Juan for more details. How long would it take to reach Riberalta? Juan slowly exhales a puff of smoke. It's about 500 miles. No more than 10 days. Only five if you travel night and day. I How will we know when we've reached Riberalta? Don't all the towns look similar? There are no other towns along the way, just the border crossing. It's jungle all the way there. But we don't know the way. What if we take some offshoot of the river by mistake and get lost? You won't just follow the main channel until you want to pull in. There are no tributaries flowing away from the river. Any detour will always bring you back. Fitz, who's been quiet, finally speaks. If we were to do it, how would we even build a raft? Juan says the best way is to find an old broken down raft and fix it up. He offers to show them where to look tomorrow morning. Then he stands, brushing the wrinkles from his white suit. You can do it. I know you can. They thank him, still dazed by the idea. After he leaves, Fitz just stares into his coffee, lost in thought. But Holly can't stop smiling. Not only is it a way out, it feels like destiny, the adventure she's been waiting for. Fitz can sense Holly's excitement bubbling over as they leave the cafe and step into the thick evening heat. Well, what do you think, Fitz? I think he's crazy. But what else can we do? Wait here for who knows how long? This could be a real adventure, Juan said. Nothing can go wrong. Holly, we just met the guy. We don't even know him, he says. People do it all the time. Stop being so cautious. It'll be just the two of us in the wide open river. We'll be like Huck and Jim. Fitz slows his step, staring down the empty street. Holly skips along, animated, talking about tents and stoves and freedom. He can't help but smile. It's true. He's always been more cautious than she is, and more skeptical. Before Vietnam, he'd lived in New York City, a place that teaches you not to be too trusting. But her enthusiasm is infectious. Come on, Fitz. I know you want to do it. He shakes his head, but he knows she's right. There's a part of him that does want to be like Huck Finn. All right, we'll do it. Yes. I knew it. By the time they get back to their room, Holly's already talking about getting supplies, a hammer and nails, rolls of plastic. Fitz just listens, smiling at the joy in her voice. He doesn't tell that deep down he still has doubts, that maybe this new plan is too good to be true. But he tells himself, they'll be careful. They'll build something sturdy. They'll make it to Bolivia. After all, how dangerous could a river really be? The next day, Holly is still flying high as she trails Juan Niebenschwander through the dusty streets of Maldonado. The morning air is already thick and humid, but she's bursting with energy. She and Fitz are on a mission. Juan points them down a narrow path that winds along the riverbank. Ask the farmers. Someone will probably have an old raft to give you. They follow the path through a grove of banana trees until it opens onto a small cornfield where a man is chopping wood outside a small shack. He looks up, wipes sweat from his forehead, and grins. He introduces himself, Ernesto and his wife, Guillermina. Neither speaks English, but they're friendly and seem amused as Holly pantomimes with her arms, pretending to paddle a raft. NASA sitamos una belsa. Ernesto chuckles and nods, then gestures for them to follow. They weave through trees until the jungle opens to the water. And there it is, a raft resting on the shore. But it's far too big for just the two of them. It's about 16ft long and 14ft wide, made of huge, thick balsa logs held together by smaller cross pieces. Before they can politely refuse, Ernesto draws his machete and strides toward it. He starts hacking through the cross pieces, stripping away the outer logs to make the raft narrower. In minutes, he's left them with the four sturdiest looking balsa logs. Holly watches in awe. When they offer him money, Ernesto waves them off with a smile. Holly is touched. The kindness of strangers almost makes her want to stay here. Almost. With Ernesto's help, they haul the stripped down raft to the edge of the river. He crouches beside the logs, pointing and explaining each step for how to fix it up. Fitz rolls up his sleeves and they secure the logs with thick strips, strips of vine, pulling each one tight. Nearby, Holly sketches the design in her journal, noting every detail. It feels good to be building something with purpose. For the first time in weeks. They aren't just waiting. They're creating their way forward. Fitz wipes the sweat from his forehead and drives another nail into place, hammering the last board onto the tent platform. The air is humid and sticky and he's exhausted. But after four long days of labor, their floating home is almost finished. Holly is gathering kindling for their makeshift cooking stove. With the help of local children, word spread through town about los gringos building a raft to ride down the Madre de Dios each day. Curious locals have gathered at the riverbank, some silently watching, others calling out advice. Ernesto shows up every day after his own workday ends. He taught them how to turn a used 5 gallon oil can into a stove, nailing it down securely on the raft and covering the opening with chicken wire to use as a grill. He also helped them whittle a paddle, a pole to push off with, and a rudder from scrap pieces of wood. Fitz stands up and takes a long look at their creation. The raft is roughly 8ft wide and 16ft long, barely bigger than their Toyota. Back home in the garage, they've stocked up on provisions. Oranges, bread, canned sausages and sardines, rice, beans, Spam cheese. They bought mosquito netting, a flashlight, a 15 foot rope, fishing line and 24 inch hooks, way bigger than they need. But it was all the store had in stock. At Juan's insistence, they bought a machete to cut vines along the river. But Fitz refused his suggestion to buy a rifle. He hates guns. After Vietnam, he never wants to hold one again. Besides, Juan assured them the local indigenous people are friendly, and as long as they stay close to the river, they won't encounter any dangerous animals. By the afternoon, only one more task remains. Juan appears at the dock to help them stretch sheets of pink plastic over poles cut from nearby trees. The material is thinner than a tarp but stronger than a trash bag. They pull it taut and staple it in place until it forms a small, colorful shelter. When they step back, Fitz can hardly believe it. The raft looks real sturdy, functional. Juan tells them he's setting off at first light on a gold expedition, so he won't be there for their grand launch. I'm sorry I won't be there to send you off. Fitz shakes his hand. Thanks for your help. We won't forget you. Juan flashes a confident smile. You'll have the time of your life. Then Juan pauses, almost as an afterthought. One thing. Don't ever swim in the river. Holly blinks. Why not? I saw children splashing in the harbor. And I thought caimans were only active at night. Juan shakes his head. It's the candiru, a miniscule sawtooth fish downriver. It can swim up your body, latch onto your intestines, and drink your blood until you die. Fitz and Holly stare at him, horrified. You're joking. Juan doesn't smile. He just gives a short nod, adjusts his hat, and walks away. Fitz exhales, shaking his head. They knew about piranhas, but those usually only attack if their prey's already bleeding. But this. He and Holly exchange a look of disbelief and a silent agreement. Whatever happens on this journey, they will definitely not be swimming in the river. It's Valentine's Day. Tonight they will unroll their sleeping bags and spend their first night aboard sleeping under the pink plastic roof. Tomorrow they'll push off, two newlyweds on a homemade raft drifting into the unknown. They couldn't be more romantic. Holly wakes first, her eyes bright with excitement. She rolls over and smacks a kiss on Fitz's mouth. It's Launch Day. Are you ready for the time of your life? Fitz opens his eyes, half asleep but smiling. Yes. Yes, I am. They boil river water treated with purification tablets and cook breakfast coffee, eggs, cheese, bread, and jam. They use the frying pan and saucepan from Holly's old trusty Girl Scout mess kit. By the time the sun rises over the tree line, a small crowd is gathered at the riverbank, smiling, waving, wishing them luck. Ernesto and Guillermina are there, too, standing arm in arm like proud parents sending their kids off to college. Holly waves back, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach. The truth is, she's having second thoughts. Are we crazy? Heading out alone into a jungle river we know nothing about? She glances down at the license they got from the harbor master. An official looking piece of paper stamped and signed. It reassures her their raft is safe. We're legit, she tells herself. They wouldn't have given us a license if they didn't think we're good to go. The harbormaster said that Riberalta Port Authority would be on the lookout for them, and if necessary, a commercial plane from Lima could be radioed to pass over the area. Holly folds the license carefully and tucks it into her money belt alongside her passport and traveler's checks. She feels ready. Then, just as they're about to cast off, Holly remembers. Wait. We need to christen the raft. They both turn toward the pink plastic tent shimmering in the sun. Fitz smiles. How about the Pink Palace? That's perfect. He hands her a bottle of local beer. Sorry, no champagne in the jungle. Holly winds her arm back and swings the bottle as hard as she can to the Pink Palace. The bottle smacks the logs, but instead of breaking, it bounces off the raft and into the brown water. The villagers gasp, then fall silent as the bottle disappears. Holly slaps her hands to her face. Oh no. It's bad luck. Fitz pulls her close. It doesn't matter. It's just superstition. She forces herself to nodding. She's never believed in that kind of stuff. Black cats, cracked mirrors, bad omens. Besides, there's no time to dwell. It's nearly noon and they want to reach the Bolivian border before dark. On the map, it's about 40 miles as the crow flies, but with the river's twists and turns, who knows? With a final shove, the raft breaks free. Holly takes a photo of the villagers waiting from shore. Holly, the current is too strong. Help me. She tosses the camera back in the bag and grabs the paddle. They dig in hard, fighting the eddies that keep dragging them back to shore. Then suddenly, the river seizes them. The Madre de Dios takes hold. They're moving fast now. Maldonado starts to shrink. Behind them, the huts, the people waving until it's all just a blur against the green. Polly laughs, her hair whipping in the breeze. We did it. Fitz grins, leaning in to kiss her. We sure did. There's no going back now. They stand with their arms around each other, watching the river widen with every bend under the blazing sun. Sun. Holly feels a shiver. The river is beautiful, but far more powerful than she ever imagined. 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 before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey@wondery.com survey this is the first 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 Love and survival by raft on the Amazon's relentless Madre de Dios by Holly Fitzgerald World 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 freeze on Sync produced by Emily Frost. Managing producer is Desi Blaylock. Senior producers are Andy Herman and Austin Rachlis. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer, Beckman and Marshall Wondering.