Lost in the River of Grass Read Online Free PDF Page A

Dad do this for Mom. “Thanks,” I say.
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    â€¦
    When I was younger, Dad used to take me fishing in the Keys. Our boat was only fourteen feet, too small for him to take both me and my brother at the same time, so I only got to go every other weekend. When Andy asks me to hold the bowline and walk down the ramp while he backs the trailer toward the water, I think about those trips with Dad. I do like I used to do for him, and when the airboat begins to float, I guide it off the trailer. Andy drives the truck back up the ramp and parks it on the grassy strip between the road and the canal.
    I hold the boat tight to the shoreline. Cars whiz by on the highway, and I imagine they envy me. I think about the Barbies on the hot bus ride to the Fakahatchee. I really wouldn’t have minded seeing it if it didn’t include riding the bus with them, and getting in the water.
    Andy asks what I’m smiling about. He’s carrying a ratty-looking blue bag with a Pan Am logo on it and a small cooler.
    â€œI guess I’m glad to be here and not on the bus with the others.”
    â€œI forgot to ask. How’d you get out of going?”
    I put the back of my hand to my forehead and scrunch up my eyes. “Don’t I look sick to you?”
    â€œVery. I’m not sure we should even go.”
    I pretend to kick him, then start to hand off the rope. “Wait. I want to take your picture.”
    â€œOnly if I can take yours.”
    â€œOkay, though I’m not sure I’ll show either of them to my parents. I’m not too keen on them ever finding out about this.”
    I hold the airboat in place with my foot on the rope and take Andy’s picture sitting in the driver’s seat. We switch places after I show him how to focus.
    â€œCool camera,” he says and snaps my picture with my hand on the throttle.
    â€œMy mother wanted to kill Dad for buying it, but he never spends money on himself, so she finally forgave him. I still can’t believe he loaned it to me.” I put it back in the Ziploc and seal the bag.
    Andy puts one leg in and pushes us off with the other foot. He takes a long-sleeved shirt from the Pan Am bag and puts it on over his T-shirt, then climbs past me to his seat. He puts a key in the ignition, pumps the rubber-buttoned choke three times, and starts to turn the key. “Oops,” he says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing. We need ear protection. Hand me the flight bag will you?” He’d left it on the deck beneath my seat. When we get going, if I tilt my head back at all, it will rest against his knees. I like the thought of that.
    I get down, hand the bag up to him, and climb back into my seat.
    â€œHere,” Andy says. “You wear these ear guards, and I’ll wear the plugs.”
    â€œDo we need these?” I turn them over in my hand. They’re the same as people working around airplanes wear, bulbous and ugly, with a wide, tight band that will mash my hair. I hand them back. “I’ll take the plugs,” I say. “You’re closer to the engine.”
    We swap, and Andy waits for me to get the plugs into my ears before he turns the key. The engine starts with an explosion of smoke, and I grab the sides of my seat. There’s nothing else to hold on to, except maybe his feet. I turn to watch the propeller in the cage behind him spin first one way, then the other, until its two blades blur. I face forward and push the plugs deeper into my ears.
    The noise increases as Andy gives the engine more gas, and we begin to skim across the surface of the canal like sliding on ice. Birds lift into the air; turtles, sunning on logs, drop into the water. Basking alligators in assorted sizes launch themselves into the canal.
    We’re going fast when Andy makes a skidding left turn off the canal through a break in a stand of cattails.
    I scream when we turn, though I wouldn’t have if I could have helped myself. It