← Against The Odds
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A listener against the odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. Holly exhales a long, shaky sigh of relief. They survived the night. It had been awful. She'd slept with one eye open, stretched out on their makeshift log platform, too scared of a predator attacking to relax, yet too exhausted to fully stay awake. It's the morning of February 26, 1973, their eighth day trapped in a dead end swamp. Yesterday morning they left their raft, the Pink palace, and began swimming upstream, each with a single log for support. They've made it farther than they ever managed before. The channel here is wider and the current stronger, a sign, maybe, that they're closing in on the Madre de Dios River. For breakfast, Fitz sprinkles out the last of their food, half a teaspoon of sugar each. It melts on her tongue. A moment of sweetness gone too soon. Holly eyes the horizon. Gray clouds are rolling in. We better start swimming. They slip into the water, each holding onto a log. Holly sidestrokes with her right arm, frog kicking with her legs. Each stroke is a struggle. They're both already exhausted after swimming almost nonstop yesterday with no real food. HOLLY over there. They spot a half fallen tree lying low across the water. A place to rest. Holly swims up first, reaching for a low hanging branch. The branch snaps. She plunges back into the water, flailing and clutching her log. The current yanks her away and she loses 30ft in an instant. Every muscle screams. I don't know how much longer I can do this. Come on, Holly, don't give up. They keep fighting, kicking toward the reeds along the tree line. Holly grabs fistfuls of tall grass, but it's too slick to hold onto, let alone pull herself forward. Then Fitz points toward a dark patch in the tree line. An opening. There. That shadow. Maybe the water will be calmer in there. They push through the gap, forcing the logs between thick branches and vines, until suddenly the dense brush opens up. The water is still and there's a strange, eerie silence. It's creepy in here. I can't see anything in this black water. At least it's a break from the current. Then Holly spots a tree ahead with a wide, flat limb, low enough to rest on. FITZ Look. It's perfect. She swims toward it, already anticipating the relief. Something brushes her leg. Probably just weeds. Don't panic, she tells herself. She pushes forward, but when she gets within 5ft of the tree, mud grips her left calf, thick as clay. It's pulling her down. She kicks hard, frantic to free her leg, but the mud sucks her down inch by inch. The more she moves, the more it swallows her. She freezes now, stuck up to her hip. Fitz. I'm coming. No, stay back. The mud. It's like quicksand. The memory hits her of that bog in Connecticut years ago when she sank up to her neck until a friend tossed her a belt to pull her free. But here, if Fitz gets close enough to throw her the rope around his waist, he'll be caught too. His legs are too long. He'd get stuck before he even reaches her. He takes a few more strokes, hesitant. She can see the shock in his blue eyes, wide and gleaming behind his glasses. Please, Fitz, don't come any closer. We'll both get caught. She tries not to panic, not to move, but the suction won't stop. There's nothing to grab, nowhere to reach as the mud grips her tighter, pulling her down like an underwater monster clenching its jaws around her leg. Emirates Premium Economy Class elevates the flying experience with an entirely new level of comfort and sophistication. Settle into wider cream leather seats with generous legroom and enjoy priority boarding. Savor premium dining with Royal Dalton china paired with Chandon sparkling wine and exclusive business class vintages. The 13.3 inch HD entertainment system offers thousands of options for your journey. This isn't just premium Economy, it's Emirates Premium Economy. Exceptional service meets unmatched comfort at a smarter price point. To find out more about Emirates premium economy, visit emirates.com us that's emirates.com us. From Wondery. I'm Cassie depechel and this is against the Odds. In February 1973, American newlyweds Fitz and Holly Fitzgerald were in South America. Five months into their year long honeymoon, they'd set out to catch a riverboat down the Madre de Dios river, chasing Holly's lifelong dream to see the Amazon. But when they finally reached the frontier Town harbor, they discovered there was no scheduled boat at all. So they built their own, an 8 by 16 foot log raft they named the Pink Palace. They were told rafting would be simple. Just follow the current 500 miles downstream from Peru to the Bolivian town of Riberalta. But a violent storm swept them off course into a flooded maze of dark water and trees with no way out. Now, starving, exhausted and fading fast, they'll have to summon everything they have left to survive before the jungle or despair swallows them whole. This is Episode three Still Waters. Holly tries to hold still, but the mud is Alive beneath her, dragging her left side down. Panic claws at her chest, but she forces herself to remember. Don't fight it. Stay high. Float. Fitz is about 10ft away, powerless to do anything but watch. Holly Stay back. I can do it. She hugs her log tight with her left arm and then gently makes wide strokes with her right arm while frog kicking near the surface with her right leg. She twists her torso, fighting the instinct to kick her trapped leg. At first she barely moves and just splashes in place. But then her left leg begins to loosen. She keeps going, slowly unscrewing herself from the mud's grip. Soon her hip bursts free. And then, with one final surge, she throws herself forward over the muck and her leg is finally released. I'm out. Thank God. They swim back through the dense brush toward the main channel. The current looks even more menacing than before. The wind is whipping up small white calves. After freeing herself, Holly is completely drained physically and mentally. She doesn't think she has the strength to keep fighting upstream. I wish we were salmon. Fitz cracks a tiny smile. The stronger current means we're getting closer. We've gotta keep going. Okay, I'll try. They swim along the edge of the channel, trying to avoid the stronger current. In the center. Low waves slap their faces and the undercurrent still pulls hard. Then through the waves, she spots a pale gray smear on the surface. Fitz. A log jam. She drags herself onto the small mound of driftwood. Trembling, Fitz claws his way up beside her, coughing. This is murder. They sit together, coated in algae and mud, staring at the channel up ahead, too tired to even speak. Then suddenly Fitz tips his head back and shakes his fists at the clouds. We can't do this anymore. You've made your point. Holly stares, stunned. She's never seen him like this. The loss of control, the defeat in his eyes, glistening with tears. Why won't you help us? What have we ever done? We're good people. Holly rests a trembling hand on his arm. Fitz. Sweetheart. But he doesn't hear her. Why did I survive Vietnam? Wounded twice? Why didn't that shell explode in my foxhole? Why didn't God let me die then? Why kill me now? He drops his head into his hands and sobs. Holly wraps her arms around him. We'll be okay. We're going to be okay. It frightens her to see him unravel like this. She's never even seen her husband cry before. She doesn't know if they will be okay. But right now she has to stay strong for both of them. At Last, Fitz chokes out the words. We have to go back. The current is too strong. We're starving. At least we'll be able to fish off the raft. Holly can feel the hot tears running down her cheeks. She doesn't want to go back. They must be close to the river. So close to getting out. But Fitz is right. The current is too fierce. They need to focus on finding food. Okay, let's go. They slide off the logjam into the current, each with one arm holding a log, and let their bodies drift. No more rage. No more tears. Just surrender. Fitz wakes the next morning under the pink plastic roof of the tent with a heaviness in his chest. The sinking fear that maybe this is the end of the road. Holly lies curled beside him. Then, without opening her eyes, she speaks as if she can read his mind. We gave it our best. We had no choice but to turn back. Fitz turns toward her and brushes his hand against her cheek. You're stronger than I ever realized. I thought I was a soldier. But you're the one keeping us alive. She smiles a small, tearful smile. They force themselves to get up and sip what's left of their coffee. Now that they've let go of their dream of reaching the Madre, they set their sights on smaller, simpler goals. Finding food and keeping hope alive. They talk about bait. Algae didn't work. They need something that'll stay on the large hook. A grasshopper or a slug. Anything a fish might bite. They paddle out on the smaller raft to search the swamp for anything edible. Their eyes dart around at the lily pads, floating branches, the tree bark. Then Fitz spots a flash of movement. A frog. It's gone in an instant. Damn it. That could have been lunch. They find some berries, but they have no idea whether they're poisonous, so they leave them. Then finally, Fitz spots a cluster of worm like creatures writhing on a log. He scoops them up. They'll make good bait. They paddle back to the pink palace. Fitz rigs the line, pushes the slimy little things onto the hook and flicks it into the water. His eyes catch a flash of scales, but nothing bites. He tries again and again. He even tries using butterflies caught with his bare hands. But they just disintegrate or get nibbled off the hook. After a full afternoon in the sun, they still have nothing to eat. Weak and dizzy, they take a few sips of water and lie back on the deck, defeated. Fitz's jeans, tied around his waist with a rope, hang even looser. Holly's jeans are slipping down, too. Their Bodies are wasting away. A large bird drifts by. Fitz watches it with hungry eyes. I wish I brought a gun. I could have shot that bird with my eyes closed. It's true. He was an expert shot in the army. Marksmanship and jump school were the only army classes he cared about. Another large bird glides by overhead. He can almost taste it. The crisp skin, the dark meat. His stomach clenches. He thinks back to Vietnam, to the canned rations dropped by helicopter. Sloppy scrambled eggs with ham stamped with expiration dates from years earlier. Back then, he'd gag looking at them now. He'd happily pry open one of those dented old cans and devour every cold, rubbery bite. Holly opens her eyes in the blistering heat, sweaty and disoriented. It's March 3rd, their 13th day. Day trapped. They haven't eaten in days. Starvation has turned everything into a fever dream. But then the truth slaps her awake. This is real. She pushes open the mosquito net and lifts the flap of the tent, desperate for air. Suddenly, a black buzzing cloud bursts inside. Fitz, watch out. Hundreds of bees pour into the tent. Within seconds, they're tangled in her hair, crawling across her face and neck. She tries to brush them away, but they sting her every time she swipes. Fitz slaps at them, too. Dear God, where do they come from? She lies down next to Fitz and forces herself to hold still. The bees settle over them like a living blanket. As long as they don't move, the swarm seems to calm down. Oh, God. What should we do? Let's get in the water, try to drown them. They bolt from the tent, half screaming, half yelping, and jump into the swamp. The cool water soothes her skin for a moment. But above them, a small, furious cloud still circles, waiting. They plunge deeper, completely underwater. And for a moment, the world goes quiet. When they surface, Holly looks at the sky. That sound. It's not the bees. It's mechanical and growing louder. A plane. They pull themselves out of the water onto the raft. The bees swarm them again, but they don't care. Fitz grabs the giant SOS sign they'd made a week earlier. They stand together and hold it high, waving and screaming. Over here. Help. Over here, please. A small plane is flying low over the trees at the horizon, gliding toward them. They've got to see us. The plane flies near them, to the right, barely 50 yards away. And then it just keeps going. Once again, they're left standing in stunned disbelief, staring up at an empty sky. It'll turn back. It has to. But it doesn't. The Sound fades. Their only connection to the outside world gone. They slowly lower the SOS sign. Their arms, crawling with bees, tremble from holding it high for so long. How could the pilot have missed them? Holly feels the rush of adrenaline, the sudden spark of hope drained from her body, slipping away as fast as it surged in. Fitz lies in the tent, hollow and hungry, dreaming, screaming of food. They've been trapped in this jungle swamp for over two weeks now. Outside, a storm has been raging for two days straight. Lightning, thunder, wind howling through the trees. At least the rain has kept the bees away. They can't risk going out on the slick logs anymore. They've been losing their balance more and more. One slip, one broken bone, and that's it. So they wait and imagine. Holly, grab me a half pound of cheddar, will ya? I'll make us grilled cheese sandwiches. She plays along. Mmm. I'll have mine with onions and real butter, no margarine. Classy. And for dessert, let's have hot fudge sundaes with extra whipped cream. Fitz lets out a quiet laugh. He reaches for the toothpaste tube, squeezes out a blob onto his fingertip and hands it to her. They lick their fingers, eyes closed, pretending it's something sweet. A little while later, the storm finally eases. Come on, Fitz. We've gotta collect water. They carefully crawl out of the tent on their hands and knees. What the hell? What is it? He crawls beside her, squinting. A bunch of slimy, writhing shapes cling to the logs at the water's edge, where the wood is slick with algae. Snails. The rain must have brought them in. There are dozens of them. Each one is about an inch long, green and brown, camouflaged against the wet bark. Two tiny antennae poke from their heads, but they don't look like any snails they've ever seen before. Can we eat them? What if they're poisonous? Fitz is already salivating, his stomach lurching at the thought of food. We have nothing to lose. We'll die if we don't eat them. One by one, they pluck the snails from the logs and drop them into their tin pan, half filled with rainwater. As Holly reaches for the last one, something jumps. A frog, barely the size of a coin. She swipes at it and catches it. Well, damn. Appetizers and a main course. Before long, they find three more tiny frogs and toss them in with the snails, clamping the lid tight. Fitz lights the stove with dry kindling they kept in the tent, and they wait for the water to boil, hoping it will Kill whatever bacteria leaves might kill them. The smell that rises is swampy and sour, the sight even worse. But when they sit down to eat the small gelatinous lumps, they're ecstatic. Their first real meal in 15 days. They pop the snails into their mouths, eyes closed, wincing, and swallow them whole. Each one slides down their throats, chased by gulps of muddy water. Then Fitz tries chewing one. The texture is rubbery, spongy. The taste like wet bark. And yet it feels glorious just to chomp down on something with his teeth again and chew. They're like escargot. Not quite like the ones I had in France. Maybe because the garlic is missing. Yeah, that must be it, then. It's time for the frogs. Holly picks one up by its tiny foot, its white belly gleaming. She closes her eyes and swallows it whole. Fitz watches her, then does the same, grimacing. He pulls her close, and Holly kisses him, laughing. Your beard tastes like frog legs. Mmm. A delicacy. For a while, they just sit there, side by side on the raft. The evening sky glows purple, lilac and magenta. And for the first time in days, they feel almost human again. Holly wakes in the sticky heat of the tent with a clarity that hits her like a jolt. I want to have a baby. She and Fitz haven't really discussed. Discussed children before. At least not as something they wanted right away. But now she forgets the hunger and pain and imagines her belly round. A baby with Fitz's curls. A future. She turns toward him. He's still asleep. She brushes his cheek. Good morning. It's a beautiful day. Fitz rubs his eyes and looks at her like maybe she's gone mad. Beautiful. She smiles. I want to have a child with you. He stares at her for a beat. Then the corners of his mouth lift just slightly. That would be wonderful. For the first time in weeks, she feels warmth spread through her chest. Not fever, not heat, but joy. How can she be this happy while starving? It's been two days since their snail and frog feast. They weren't poisoned, but they weren't exactly nourished, either. Still, right now, she feels alive. Maybe this is what the body does before the end, the strange euphoria that comes before death. But despite her physical deterioration, the clarity feels real. She's only 27. She thought she had all the time in the world. But now, staring at death, she finally understands what matters. She wants a family, a home, a life. She's not ready to die. For a moment, she lets herself hope. Maybe someone realizes they're missing Juan the gold prospector. Or the harbor master who stamped their license. Or the Bolivian border sergeant. Maybe someone is asking about them. Maybe a search party is coming. But deep down she knows no one is looking for them. She turns to look at Fitz. His eyes are still sky blue, but the sparkle is gone. Watching him slowly disintegrate terrifies her. She knows they don't have much time left. If help doesn't come soon, it won't matter how much she still wants to live. Holly blinks awake to the sound of soft buzzing against the plastic walls. Small dark shadows move just behind on the tent in the morning light. The goddamn bees. They're back. It's March 12th, their 22nd day of starvation. Their bodies are skeletal now. Sometimes when the wind gusts, Holly feels like she could just blow away. They've been living off whatever they can find. A few snails, a handful of frogs and grasshoppers, some berries they took a chance on eating. They were sweet and didn't poison them. But they did nothing to stop the hunger. The biggest meal they've had in weeks was three baby birds they found in a nest. Holly had to look away as Fitz cut off their heads and skewered their tiny bodies. There was hardly any meat, but they ate it all. The bones, the blood, everything. And still they're fading, as if the work of catching, plucking, and cooking burns more energy than the morsels of food can ever give back. It's barely 9am and already the tent feels like an oven. The air is thick and humid. Sweat rolls down their faces, down their backs. We need air in here. We'll just have to endure them. Holly knots, too tired to speak. She opens a mosquito net, then lifts the flap. In an instant the bees pour in. They land everywhere. Her lips, her hairline, Fitz's beard, his eyelids. They seem to be drawn to their sweat. Holly feels them crawling into her armpits. She squeezes her eyes shut. Don't scream. Don't move, she tells herself. Freaking out will only cause them to sting and will only waste what precious drops of energy they have left. Bit struggles to his knees. I can't stand this. I need to go outside and wash them off me. He crawls through the flap into the fresh air. I'll come out in a minute. She sinks back on the sleeping bag, willing the bees to lose interest. Then, through the buzzing, she hears sobbing. Fitz, what's wrong? She forces herself to get up and crawl out onto the deck. Fitz is sitting at the stern with his head in his hands, shaking. She crawls toward him across the logs. What is it? Are you hurt? He looks up, distraught. It's gone. What's gone? My wedding ring. It slipped off. I couldn't catch it. Tears streaked down his hollow cheeks. That simple gold band, engraved with their initials and wedding date, December 12, 1970, had never once left his finger. It fit perfectly when they picked it out in Connecticut just a month before their wedding. Now it lies somewhere in the black water, lost forever. Don't worry, honey. We'll get you a new one. But Fitz only shakes his head, staring at his bare ring finger. Everything's been taken from us. She searches his pale face, his hollow red eyes. For a second she thinks he'll scream and rage at the sky again, but instead he just sobs. Holly wraps her arms around his shaking shoulder. It terrifies her, witnessing him crumbling apart, body and soul. We still have each other. That's what matters. We have love. We have to keep fighting. He nods, barely. For a long time they just sit there, holding on to each other, holding on to what little they have left. Fitz's eyes snap open to the afternoon sun beaming through the plastic roof. What time is it? It's hard to tell anymore. The sun is already high. They must have slept 16, maybe 18 hours. It's March 13, their 25th day. Trapped, Fitz can feel himself losing perspective. The line between day and night is starting to blur. Bees crawl across his skin. One pause is on his lip, another on his eyelid. He barely notices them anymore, even when they sting. The pain has become routine, like background noise, just another part of the swamp. A few feet above him, he watches two huge hornets carry bits of wet mud to the tent's peak. They are building a nest. They move calmly, as if he and Holly don't exist. He turns to Holly beside him. I think they can sense we won't be here much longer. We're still here. We can't give up. He's scared of how thin she is. She looks like a stick figure. Her stomach is hollow. He brushes some tangled hairs from her face. If I die, you won't be alone for long. You'll have plenty of men to choose from. Don't say that. How do you know I won't be the first to die? I'm sorry, Hall. I love you so much. I love you. Please. We've come this far. We're going to make it. Fitz kisses the top of her tangled hair. He wants so badly to believe her, to believe they have more time, to believe they have a future with a child, maybe two. But as he lies back against the warped wood. He can feel it. His mind is slipping. His body is giving up. Holly jolts awake at night to a shrieking roar echoing across the swamp. It's so loud it seems to reverberate against the plastic walls of their tent. Fitz, did you hear that? What do you think? A jaguar. Fitz doesn't answer. He just groans and turns to his side. Then she hears another growl, closer this time. Holly lies still and prays. Whatever's out there doesn't smell them. She's amazed they've lasted this long without being attacked. It feels like it's only a matter of time. Something splashes not far away. Her heart jumps. She turns to Fitz. His face looks ghostly in the dim moonlight filtering through the plastic. He looks so much older than 26. She traces his sunken cheeks with her fingers, feeling the sharp bones beneath his scraggly beard. She brushes her hand further down his body, where muscle and flesh used to be. Tears flood her eyes. Every night she's wondered if they'll make it to morning. She hasn't written in her journal for days. Her thoughts are too dark to put on paper. Her biggest fear isn't her own death. It's losing fits. She imagines the terror, what she would do if he died first. She doesn't think she'd be able to push his body into the swamp. But she also wouldn't be able to let him just rot in the sun. She lays her head against his shoulder and prays that someone will find them. Or that if they have to die, they'll die together. Holly lies still, listening, like she does every morning, for the sound of Fitz breathing. Nothing. She turns toward him. His lips are gray. His chest isn't moving. Fitz. She gently shakes his shoulder. Fitz. Fitz. His arm falls limply across his chest. For a second, her own breath catches in her throat. Then Fitz's glassy eyes flutter open. Thank God. She kisses his cool skin. I don't feel too well. You need water. She lifts the canteen to his lips. He drinks every drop. I'll go fill it. Fitz shakes his head. No. I'll go. He staggers out on all fours, his bones shifting under sagging skin. He bangs into the frame of the tent. Holly can't bear to watch. She has to look away. Then suddenly. Socorro. Socorro. Fitz is screaming, his voice stronger than it's been in weeks. Holly freezes. Is he delirious? Are you okay? What is it? Glasses. Pass me my glasses. She grabs them beside his sleeping bag and scrambles out. He reaches for them, then squints through the scratched lenses. My God, men. Holly follows his gaze across the flooded channel. About 70 yards away, a narrow dugout canoe glides out of the trees. Two muscular men with short black hair are paddling toward them with rifles laid across the bow. The first human beings they've seen in 31 days. Ola. Help. Zakato. Help. The men continue in their direction with their eyes fixed on them. Their voices murmur low to each other, but they don't respond. Why aren't they answering? Stay back. Fitz reaches for her small Girl Scout knife. Paulie's heart pounds. She knows why he's wary. The last time armed men approached, it didn't go well. Still, she refuses to give up faith. They'll help us. They have to. Holly squints into the glare, watching as the canoe drifts towards them. The men's silence is unsettling. No wave, no call, just the steady rhythm of the paddles cutting the water. As they come closer, Holly realizes that the men are indigenous. They're speaking in Quechua. The canoe glides up beside the pink palace, now more gray than pink. Fitz calls out, hablas espanol, senor. The man in front of gives a small nod. I'm Fitz. This is Holly. The men still don't respond. They just sit there, studying them. Holly swallows hard. What are your names? The taller, more slender faced man in the bow speaks first. Soy Roque. Then the other, more muscular man with a wider face introduces himself. Soy Silverio. Their faces soften. Though quiet, they seem kind. Holly leans toward Fitz, whispering, we'll have to trust them. Fitz exhales and lets the Girl Scout knife drop to his side, out of sight. In rough Spanish, Holly tells them, you're a miracle. We've been here 26 days. The men's mouths puff open. Silverio crosses himself. Roque shakes his head and tells them there's no land, no people here. He gestures toward the trees, explaining that only in July, when the water dries up, do they ever come out here to tap rubber trees. July. That's four months away, Holly thinks. We never would have made it. Roque explains. They were hunting turtles along the Madre when they spotted a monkey. They chased it through the flooded forest and then saw them. The men ask them how they ended up here. Though barely coherent, Holly feels a rush of energy just to speak again. Fitz joins in too. They tell their story in broken Spanish with wild gestures as the men listen, wide eyed. When they finish, Fitz gets to the point. Comida food? Si, si. The men exchange A few quick words, then point east, Santo Domingo. There you will eat. They explain that their camp, a rubber tree farm, is two hours away and Riberalta Ocha horas eight hours away by boat. They had almost made it on their own, so close. If not for that violent storm that changed everything. Fitz clears his throat. Por favor, can we go now? Si. Bring our things. They gesture for them to pack up, even though in this moment, belongings mean nothing to them. All they want is food. But the men don't seem to be in any rush. Weak and trembling, Fitz and Holly do what they're told. They move as quickly as their starving bodies allow, gathering what little they care to keep a few clothes, Holly's camera and rolls of film, her journal, Fitz's battered typewriter. They tie on their money belts. That's it. Fitz points to the rest, offering it to the men. They pull apart the raft, methodically stripping the mosquito netting, cooking pots, tent poles, even the nails. Within minutes, the Pink palace is reduced to just a few floating logs and scattered floorboards. At last, Fitz and Holly collapse into the ten foot canoe. Holly's hand presses against something cold and clammy. She flinches. It's the head of a three foot turtle. Roque grins proudly. Muerto dead. With steady strokes, the men climb, push off from the wreckage. Holly turns back and says a silent goodbye to the Pink Palace. Without that fragile raft, they never would have survived this long. It was both their prison and their savior. Facing forward again, Holly watches Roque and Silverio work, curious how they'll find their way out. But the canoe glides high and smooth against the current. They steer, veer across the bay to the far side of the swamp, weaving between half submerged trees. Branches whip past their faces, vines brush their shoulders. Every few seconds, one of the men lifts a machete to clear a path through. After what feels like an hour, the canoe breaks free of the jungle wall and bursts out onto a vast brown expanse of open water. Fitz gasps. The Madre de Dios. Holly leans over the side, scoops a handful of water and touches it to her lips. I said I'd kiss her if I ever saw her again. Roque points behind them toward a dark, narrow channel feeding off the main river. The place the storm had swept them into nearly a month ago. For a long moment, Holly just stares at it before finally turning away. It's all behind them now. The men paddle hard, guiding the canoe into the current. A little while later, they round a bend and there it is. Four thatched roofs rising above the trees. On A small green hill. Santo Domingo. Fitz and Holly grip each other's hands, eyes glistening as as they stare at the row of wooden buildings. Civilization at last. Holly collapses onto the bank and strokes the dirt with her fingers. Tears spill down her cheeks. After a month afloat, the feeling of solid ground is overwhelming. People gather quickly. Ten, maybe 15 men, women and children, all staring in amazement at the two skeletal strangers who've drifted in from nowhere. An orange is passed forward through the crowd. Holly and Fitz peel it furiously and pop a wedge into their mouths. Holly closes her eyes as the pulp bursts on her tongue. Juice runs down her chin. Fitz reaches out, catches a drip with a finger and touches it gently back to her lips. For a fleeting moment there's nothing but sweetness and sunlight. Then a tall European looking woman with silver brown hair steps forward. She's wearing tailored pants and a fitted blouse and her expression is stern. Without a word, she snatches the half eaten orange from Holly's hand and tosses it aside. Holly watches, stunned, as the fruit rolls down the hill. No bueno. The woman rubs her own abdomen and tells them in Spanish that the acid isn't good for their stomachs. Then she smiles. Her tone softens. Soy Gregoria Desdre. She tells them her family owns the Santo Domingo rubber plantation. This camp where Roque and Silveria work. Gregoria nods toward them and gestures for Fitz and Holly to follow. Roque and Silverio help them shuffle into a small house. Their legs feel like jelly. Fitz collapses to the wooden floor. I'm alright. I just need something to eat. Other family members are gathered inside. A hammock is strung for Holly and two benches are pushed together for Fitz to lie down on. Gregorio returns with steaming cups of a sweet cereal drink made of milk, milk, sugar and toasted grain. It goes down easily. Gregoria insists they take it slow. Their bodies aren't ready for real food yet. She brings them fresh clothes. One of her nieces gently untangles Holly's hair with a comb. It feels so good to be taken care of. Holly rummages in her pack and pulls out a few straw rings she'd bought earlier on their trip. She presses them into the girl's hands. Their faces light up. Gregoria shakes her head, but Holly insists. Please, we want you to have them. Fitz nods, turning to Roque and Silverio. We owe you everything. We wish we had more to give you. Roque raises his hand, humble and smiling. No, no, no, no. He explains that the bedding pots, mosquito netting, all the leftover camping gear already made them rich compared to the others here. Then the conversation shifts to what happens next. Gregoria tells them that trading boats pass by every couple of days to carry goods to market in Riberalta. They can rest tonight and catch a ride in the morning. Holly and Fitz share a long, quiet look of relief, inhaling the smell of cooking in the air. Buttery, rich, almost unreal after so long without food. She turns to Fitz. Let's celebrate this day every year. March 16, for how fortunate we are. Fitz nods. Great idea. Our own Thanksgiving every year. Thank God for Roque and Silverio and that monkey who led them to us. Fitz chuckles, a sound she hasn't heard in so long. Funny thing. There's a monkey on my family's coat of arms. Really? I swear. Legend says a monkey carried a Fitzgerald baby out of a burning house. Saved the family line. Holly grins, shaking her head. Then a monkey saved the Fitzgeralds again. But then tears well up and spill before she can stop them. Fitz squeezes her hand gently. It's okay. We're safe now. For the first time in weeks, Holly lets herself believe it. When Fitz and Holly arrived at the hospital in Riberalta the next day, the medical staff could hardly believe what they saw. Holly weighed just 93 pounds and Fitz only 124. Each had lost nearly a quarter of their body weight. They were severely dehydrated and weak. The nurses, who were American Maryknoll nuns, hooked them to IVs immediately, and the doctor oblivion named Dr. Diaz, said it was a miracle they were still alive. Another day or two in the swamp and they likely wouldn't have made it. Holly's condition stabilized quickly, but Fitzgerald was on the brink. Blood tests revealed he had parasites, likely dormant in his body since Vietnam. After two and a half weeks in the hospital, they were eating full meals again. Though still gaunt, they were both strong enough to walk and travel home. On the flight north, they gazed out the window and saw the Madre de Dios winding below. From above, they finally understood why no rescue plane ever found them. The pink palace would have been invisible beneath the dense green canopy. They spent a few months recovering in Massachusetts, but by October 1973 they were back on the road, resuming their delayed honeymoon with a deeper kind of wonder. France, Britain, and Ireland. Bali for Christmas on the beach. Then Malaysia, Thailand, India, trekking in Nepal. Later Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania, the great game parks of Africa. Fitz filed newspaper columns. Holly captured the world through her lens. A few years later, they welcomed their first daughter, Megan, then their second, Aiden Fitts, built a successful career in law. Holly became a psychotherapist. They created an incredible life. And every year since their rescue on March 16, they celebrate what they call Raft Day. No champagne, just bits of orange, fish and rice. A simple ritual of gratitude. Now, more than 50 years later, Holly and Fitz are in their late 70s with five grandchildren. They live in Massachusetts, still happily together. This is the third 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. 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 Rackless. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer, Beckman and Marshall Louie. For Wondery.