barrel ready to fire. I have attached a three-foot length of ranger cord to my rifle sling and one of my belt loops. This will give me a retrieval leash in case it is dislodged from me during the trip out from under the tree.
I have always been a strong swimmer, my father taught me at the young age of five, he had a unique but cruel way to teach a kid to swim. We were in a small flat bottom boat fishing on a lake near Fort Bragg, I asked my father if he would teach me to swim, simple question. But I had made a fatal mistake that I wouldn’t make again, I lost count, count of how many six packs my father had drank, a big mistake. He looked at me with a glare of hatred in his eyes, followed by an evil smile, got up from the boat seat and threw me over the side of the boat into the water. No, I did not have a life jacket on, and yes, the water was deep, to me at that moment it was an abyss. His words to me were loud and clear, “Swim or drown, you worthless little shit”. I was able to dog paddle and tread water on the surface for a bit, slowly following my father and the flat bottom boat as he rowed away. Watching as it got smaller and smaller, surely he wasn’t going to leave me here to drown. I realized yes he was. As my strength started failing and my lungs started filling with water, my screams were echoing back at me from the shoreline, my father never slowed down, never looked back. It hurt, both the water in my lungs and the realization that my father was going to let me drown, no he was drowning me. I lost the urge to fight it any longer and I began to sink into the dark watery grip of the lake, actually it was more a swamp. I felt the water close in around me, and I saw him, the devil himself coming for me up from the deep.
Then one of my heroes kicked in, good old Johnny Weissmuller, yep, Tarzan himself. I remembered the Saturday matinees, watching this guy swim through crocodile infested waters like a fish, remembered playing Tarzan with my younger brother and having to get away from the crocodiles in our back yard, air swimming to get away. And I started kicking and stroking like good old Johnny.
My face broke the surface, I coughed out the water from my lungs and started swimming like a fool for the nearest shore. Obviously, I survived that day, and because of it, I swam every chance I could. I also remember the look of first astonishment, then anger mixed with hate on my fathers face as I sauntered up to our big old black Buick road master and climbed unceremoniously into the back seat, not a word was said. It was a quiet ride home.
Years later as an older kid around ten, while my father was fishing on the sand bar on the Oklahoma side of the Red River, I would swim across the river from the Oklahoma side to the Texas side and visit the bait shop to get a snack, usually a Royal Crown cola, the big sixteen ounce bottle and a bag of peanuts. After eating the snack, I would swim back across the river. People must have thought I was crazy, a damn ten-year-old kid swimming across the flowing river, a river that usually took at least one life every year. Swimming this river almost on a daily basis, taught me how to handle river currents, how to make them work for me, no, how to work with them. Dealing with river currents rendered a deep respect for their power.
I need to move, I am running out of time. It’s now or never. I have to get my ruck back and get it quick.
Rucksack Recovery
Like I said, the plan is to submerge while still under the tree. Push off the bottom with my feet, launching myself underwater. I realize that the current in the river will be causing the bubbles to drift down somewhat.
When I push out from under the tree I will shoot for a spot a little up river from where the bubble’s are breaking on the surface and then let the current slowly drag me back down stream where I am assuming my rucksack is located, assumption, the mother of all screw ups. The plan is risky I could overshoot the rucksack easily. Hell the bubbles could be from anything, a big snapping turtle to an alligator belching fat up from his last rotting meal. Nothing ventured nothing gained, I have to try to recover my ruck.
A rucksack is a field soldier’s lifeline, mine has all my gear, extra ammo, the GPS and my food in it. In Ranger school, we trained extensively on water operations. To include certification in scuba and snorkeling. One of the things covered was to hyperventilate when facing a long swim or deep dive under water. By hyperventilating, you dump all the carbon dioxide out of the bottom of your lungs. The build up of carbon dioxide is what triggers your diaphragm to kick in and forces you to breath. You can fool or delay this action by purging the carbon dioxide out allowing you to extend the amount of time you can hold your breath.
One night when fishing off a pier as a kid the handle of my real came loose and fell into the murky dark water under the pier. After climbing down the ladder attached to the pier, I dove down into the fifteen feet of dark water feeling along the bottom of the lake in a desperate attempt to find the small reel handle, I found it on the first attempt. May have just been luck then, maybe luck will be with me again. The reel handle meant no more fishing, the rucksack could turn this mission into a life or death situation very quickly. It is imperative that I recover my ruck, and all the time I have wasted looking under the tree has done nothing but close the gap between any possible pursuers and myself.
I take several deep breaths, forcing as much carbon dioxide from the bottom of my lungs as possible. Bracing my feet in the murky muddy bottom I launch out towards the location where I figure my rucksack is. I thrust slowly to keep from making any splashes or cause any surface ripples. Smooth and easy is the way to go now. I’m out from under the cover of the overhanging tree, the water is too murky to see much more than a blur, but I can tell an increase of light from the sun overhead. I arrive upstream of the bubbles on the surface. I hope. Now to let the current push me downstream to where I assume the rucksack will be. It just took the one push with my legs to reach the location I picked to start my downstream drift for the ruck. A few seconds is all I can give myself to find the rucksack, if not found quickly I need to swim back under the protection and cover of the overhanging trees, rest, check area security and try again. Repeating this process until my ruck is found. If I do find my rucksack, I will immediately head to the other side of the river to the spot I had picked to exit the river. The animal slide. I need to stay underwater as much as possible. The weight of the gear in my ruck should keep me submerged in this fresh water river.
The current is not as swift as I thought it would be. I feel and grope around on the muddy river bottom littered with leaves, limbs and other slimy stuff. The oxygen in my lungs is getting thin, my diaphragm is starting to tickle, and soon it will be sending the message to my brain it’s time to take a breath dumb ass. My brain has not started screaming for oxygen yet, but I know its coming.
Then I feel it, the wonderful feeling of a nylon strap, a strap I pray is connected to my rucksack. Without hesitating, I clip the strap into into the carabiner I keep clipped to a belt loop on the right side of my pants. I start kicking. Kicking hard towards the other side of the river. To the exit point from this black, dark, murky pit. My brain, is starting to panic, it’s sensing the absence of oxygen in my blood stream, sending panic signals to my diaphragm. In response my diaphragm is starting to spasm, pain has begun at the bottom of my rib cage and is moving up through my chest. My whole body is screaming for oxygen, my legs are beginning to cramp. Damn I don’t think I can make this.
The rucksack is acting like an underwater sail. Even though the current is not real swift, the mass of the rucksack is pulling me downriver faster than I had expected. Now I am in fear of overshooting the only point on the opposite shore I saw that looked even feasible to exit from the river.
My diaphragm has kicked into high gear, pumping up and down trying to expel the poison carbon dioxide building up in the bottom of my lungs, I am fighting to keep from exhaling even a little. Just like the small bubbles coming from my ruck gave me its location, exhaling the building carbon dioxide in my lungs would be a road map to my location for anybody watching.
The current is trying to draw me back away from the opposite shore, this river is a hungry river, dark, muddy, and stagnant on the bottom. Hungry for nourishment for its residents. My body would be a sacrifice of Fillet Mignon proportions. Feeding its hungry denizens for a long time, even leaching the calcium from my bones long after my flesh had been consumed.
The water is getting brighter, I am coming closer to the surface. I am fighting with all my strength to keep from breaking the surface of this liquid tomb, my brain, lungs, my body is screaming