Water Hopping

Our Vista float plane coming from the fuel dock.









"Nice digs."
Lou peels open a can of mixed nuts and dumps a handful into his palm. In his other hand is a chilled can of Club Cocktail... Long Island Ice Tea I think. The plane is stocked, but they didn't have the time to pick up the flight attendant with the rush and all.

I feel a little uncomfortable in the Gulfstream 200 as we make our way... post haste, to the town of Coari in the Amazon Jungle. I don't know if it is because of the anxiety or the slight case of air-sickness I have from the turbulance on our climb out.

Jerry wanted us to all go on Abigail, but now it is only he and Ollie that will take her down. It is over two thousand miles as the crow flies so he will take almost three times as long with fuel stops. We have the bulk of the supplies on board her in case this turns into an extended expedition.
Lou and I are the advance team, jetting down there as quickly as possible so we can take advantage of the the distress beacon still eminating from the Breitling. Time is of the essance. Our flight crew tells us that we should be wheels down in four hours.

We are to be met by the same pilot that dropped Chris off at Lago Piorini. He has also arranged to have brothers of the same guides that took them up river. None of this give me pause to relax. Walking in the footsteps of a man lost in the Amazon Jungle will twirl your compass.

"Hold out your hand." Lou jostles the can of nuts.
"I'm good."
"Come on, you haven't eaten anything since we landed in Puerto Barrios."
"Yeah, well... "
He tosses the can again and then starts picking out his favorites.
"What did they give us aside from that satellite phone? What about weapons?"
I pull out the inventory list of what they loaded in the small hold.
"HK MP-5SD3? Two of those and a butt-load of... special ammunition drum canisters instead of clips, a hundred rounds each."
"Ahhh, good weapon, 800 rounds per minute, internally silenced."
He drains the Long Island and leans back to access the mini-bar.
"What else?"
I continue down the paper, calling off each of the items; percussion grenades, a couple of thermal grenades, machetes, two Kimber forty-fives.
"Cool, back to the Kimber, huh? I was pissed when that gun went into the drink."
"Lights, tents, rations... what the fuck is all of this stuff?"
"That's what they put on Abigail." He finds two more cans of Long Island."
I give him a look, "You aren't gonna be passed out by the time we get there, are you?"
"What are you? My fucking mother?" He cracks one and empties it without hesitation.
I look at him, "Are there any more of those?"
He shakes his head. "No, Nancy, these are the last two. They do have a couple of Fuzzy Navels and a Sex on the Beach. I don't touch those fairy drinks, but you can have 'em."

I make my way over to the mini-bar and see that there are a couple of Vodka Martini cans and pull those for the ride. The other drinks stay in the chiller to be consumed during less manly pursuits.

Not much to do on the way down. These guys are cooking along at top speed, but it is still a long time. We end up drinking everything in the bar, including a couple of minis of 10 Cane rum we find in the back. Lou longs for a Walker, but he smoked the last one he had while we waited on the tarmack for this plane to show. The rest of his stash is aboard Abigail. He prays that Ollie doesn't forget to bring it up river when he comes.

I am asleep when we touch ground. It is a harder landing than most. I can see the windsock at the end of the field and it doesn't seem like that is the issue. Probably a rookie.
We taxi for a bit and then stop outside a small wooden building. A man comes out and enters the aircraft. He seems ready to ask a lot of questions and demand passports and other paperwork when he is handed a manila envelope thick with what has to be currency of some kind. He is handed a clipboard and is required to sign by the co-pilot, then he turns and exits.

"Wow, that was quick."
The pilot looks at me and winks. "Don't have the time to screw with these little tyrants. So we radio ahead and let them know we are coming and that we have been instructed to provide "documentation fees" upon landing."
"No shit." Lou straightens up and stretches, "How much was that?"
"Two hundred ReAls."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, about a hundred-fourteen bucks."
"Is that all it takes?"
"One time all we had were two bottles of Scotch."

An old seventies crew cab Chevy four wheel drive pulls up to the plane and two guys in coveralls step out amid the clatter of empty beer cans. With quick succession they are tossed in the bed. On the side of the truck, as well as painted on the back of their coveralls is the word "Vista".
We watch as they walk over to the pilot. Lou and I grab the duffles and a couple of hard cases that contain our more volatile instruments and we walk up to the small group.
"Jake," the pilot begins, "This is the crew from Vista FloatPlanes for the trip out to Lago Piorini. They will take you from here."
We shake hands with our pilots, and then with the floatplane guys.
"You boys didn't have to dress up on our account." Lou tells them.
One of them looks at Lou with wide eyes, then turns to his partner, then back to Lou.
"Hey, relax fella, just kidding."
Our G200 pilot turns to us, "They know who you work for, what that represents. They do not want to disappoint the family."

The jittery one grabs every bag we are carrying and places them in the back of the truck, giving special attention to the metal carrying cases... before I am able to warn him.
Lou and I load into the back seats of the crew cab and we exit the airstrip next to the terminal building.
"Where are we going?"
The two of them talk... Portugese I would assume. I look to Lou. Finally something he can't do. Why it has to be at this moment I don't know.
"English?" I ask the driver.
He looks at me in the mirror from behind taped sunglasses... RayBans of all things.
"Floatplane is on the river."
"No shit, Sherlock." Lou nudges me in the ribs as though he knew it all the time.
"Horse shit, Lou... you were thinking the same thing I was."
"No, Nancy, I was thinking a "float" plane would be floating."

Ten minutes of washboard road and we are pulling down a long industrial drive on the water. The guys pull off onto a path and drive between the trees. Against one of them leans a hand painted sign for "Vista FloatPlanes". We continue up to a rickety dock structure that doubles as a containment for a flotilla of logs. To the right of this is another floating platform that I assume serves the radial engine float-plane.

As we get the gear out of the truck, a red floatplane motors up to the platform and one of the crew runs to receive it.
"I was worried." I turn to Lou, "By the looks of things I thought we might have to pedal our way to the lake."
"She sounds good." Lou nods and we watch as the pilot shuts her down.

As our gear is loaded onboard I check out the plane. It seems as though she is well taken care of. The pilot sees my interest and we have a short discussion about the plane. It has been in his family for forty years and has only had three in-flight incidents; bird strike, engine fire, and a float departing the aircraft. He assures me that the plane is in the best shape ever... he has seen to that. I believe him.

Lou grabs the hand held tracker out of our gear and turns it on. It ranges for a moment or two and then reports the position of the Breitling's signal at sixty-three point eight miles northwest.
"We should have him fly us over this location so we can see what we are in for." Lou holds the tracker up and shows the pilot.

The guy looks at the tracker and then at Lou, his eyes wide. "No... no, this is not possible. I will take you as far as the north shore of Piorini. But this place?"
He pointst to the tracker, "This is protected by Black Makumba, very strong, Yanomami black magic."
I look at Lou and get a blank stare in return. Finally, something he doesn't know. But that doesn't help us here.
"Makumba? Black Makumba? What the hell is Black Makumba?"

The pilot turns away and feigns an inspection on the old plane.
"Yanomami protect their lands with a curse, very bad."

Lou smirks, "Jake, I hope you brought your rabbit's foot."
We don't have time for mumbo jumbo.
"Look, pal, our friend is lost in the jungle. All we want to do is fly over this spot. You don't have to land, you don't have to do anything but fly us around so we can see what we are in for."

The pilot stops his inspection and turns, "I know this man. I take him to the lake and leave him. I know he is Antonelli Family. But this is nothing compared to Black Makumba. Is very very bad."
"Okay, Mack, okay... just take us to the mouth of the river. I will let the Antonelli's know that you weren't able to accomodate us."

His features reveal the internal struggle. Black Magic, his beliefs, the possibility of reprisal from the "family". But Makumba seems to win out and his fears of this ancient practice overshadows any reason.

We leave the water with no incident. The jungle is featureless, with the exception of an occassional snaking river here and there. Then we reach the lake. Quite beautiful, a developers dream if any of these people could afford the dreams that those people dream. But the lake is primative with a couple of shanties and make-shift docks stringing out into the water.

After a minute or two over the lake, I ask our pilot one last time.
"Last chance, pal. Fly us over this location." I point to the tracker and its reading, "You might save this man's life. The Antonellis will definately appreciate your decision."

Moments pass as he tangles with the decision. Finally he requests the location as we fly over the spot where we will eventually land.

Both Lou and I scour the landscape for any clue as we make our way toward the sight of the Breitling's broadcast. There is nothing but green jungle and a black ribbon of river. Then things happen quickly.
I spot a flash of red or orange in the jungle below. Before I can open my mouth to speak, the engine sputters, causing our pilot to begin a frantic check of gauges and knobs. He taps and pulls and turns but the engine keeps sputtering.

A quick bank, a dive to gain some speed and then he kicks it back up to make it toward the lake. Then there is that uneasy silence when the engine stops and just the whine of the wind fills the cabin.

"Well shit, that's four times, eh?" Lou smiles, somehow knowing that this isn't the emergency that our pilot feels that it is.

The lake comes into view as we drop below one hundred feet. Our pilot is praying in Portugese as we get feet wet and have cleared the trees. It is obvious that he has been flying since he could walk... second nature. He sets her down with little more than a bump and we drag to a stop.

With the paddles we assemble from under the seats it takes twenty minutes to get us up to the make-shift dock where our river boats await us. Black Makumba... it may be real.