"Wednesday, Sept. 28
For the first time in the weeks of adjusting to the most primitive of conditions, I awoke with an irritable feeling. I couldn't pinpoint it. I merely felt rotten and everything around me was rotten. Several times that morning I flew off the handle – shouting at the director, yelling foul words to the crew. Each time I couldn't believe I had done it and quickly apologized. The camera was set up downstream on the left bank of the river. All preparations had been made. I was to paddle the canoa from the rear and Eric would be up front. It isn't every day that a movie is made in Tingo Maria and along the river bank were many curious Indians.
I used to drive race cars, and know how important it is to know your course. I walked along the river bank again, peering into the boiling cauldron of waters. I didn't like it now one bit. Suddenly, I had an idea. Perhaps, a rope could be attached to the canoa and someone out of camera range could guide the boat from shore. I was fiddling around with a long piece of rope trying to secure it to the canoa when Eric approached.
"That'll never work" he laughed. It was nearly 12:30, and a large mass of rain clouds in the distance was moving toward Tingo Maria. If it proved to be a big storm, it could mean a delay of two or three more days before we could get the scene. We were all cognizant of this, especially Eric, and we had no desire to sit around waiting for the rain to stop. All of us were eager to depart the next day by plane for Lima where we would be able to take our first hot shower in weeks, and rest a few days before completing the film.
With a concerned, serious expression on his face, Eric took another glance at the approaching ugly blackened sky. He slowly shook his head, and then smiling reassuringly said to me, "Nico, now or never!". Those were Eric's last words. We silently took our positions in the canoa, and were pushed into the main stream by several Indians.
For the first 50 yards or so, I felt that I had acted pretty ridiculously in thinking something could go wrong. We were travelling at a swift pace, but in catching the main current of the river it was serving as the navigator around the rocks. There was little paddling to do. The current was doing the work. More or less, all we had to do was hang on.
With the thunder of a thousand cannons, the momentary security I had felt disappeared. The canoa bolted into a cauldron of rapids at the bend in the river, so furious that the craft was no more effective than a toothpick. We started taking on a lot of water as we shot up and then dipped into the rapids. Water was spilling in from the bow with tremendous force. Both Eric and myself were so busy trying to keep the canoa upright with our paddles that there was no time to bail. Suddenly, I noticed Eric start to stand up. I knew immediately that he was planning to jump. When we had talked about the dangers that one day, I tried to impress on him it would be wiser to stay with the canoa. Eric, though, was used to riding surfboards, and for a surfboarder the reaction in time of trouble is to leap away so as not to be hit on the head by the board.
Weakness overcame my body. Every bone had succumbed to fatigue. I was dying. My eyes seemed to automatically close and I found myself drifting further away from reality. I kept thinking only that I was dying. No other thoughts entered my mind. I found myself accepting death. I actually had given up any hopes of surviving when suddenly my eyes were open again staring into the yellowish water at some blurred object in front of me. it was the half-submerged end of the canoa. God or some power had put it there for I was able to reach out with the strength I thought I had lost and grasp it. With a second surge of miraculous effort I pulled myself up on it, forcing it deeper in the water and creating a springboard to pop me above the surface. I managed a life-saving gulp of air before I went under again. This time I knew I would live. I clung to the swamped boat as the current swept us beyond the curve, and into calmer water where the boat drifted into a whirlpool. As it started to spin I kicked off with my feet to the shore.
An Indian boy, 10 or 12 years old, was standing knee deep in the water. I grabbed out and used his shoulder as a support to regain my footing. My knees trembled violently. Quickly I turned my head back to the river to look for Eric. I spotted his body bobbling like a cork in one of the whirlpools – one upstream from me that I had successfully passed while I was being carried underwater while clinging to the canoa. One look at the way his head was face down in the water chilled me with terror. Eric was probably dead, I thought with a nauseous sensation. The best of swimmers would be helpless in such strong currents. Eric had given up – like I had. I started to swim out in a frantic attempt to grab him as the main current was bringing him downstream. It was useless. I was still too waterlogged and weighted down. The pistol I managed to rip off my belt. There was no time to remove my boots or strip off my shirt. Two Indians, meantime, had retrieved the canoa and had it floating again near me. I pushed both of them into it and desperately pointed to Eric's floating body. They were able to bring the canoa alongside of Eric. The Indian in front grabbed him by the hair. Quickly they all disappeared momentarily in another series of rapids.
"Thanks God," I said aloud. "Eric might have a chance if they get him to shore in time to administer artificial respiration." Then I doubled over in severe pain. I had swallowed a great quantity of that dirty water. I vomited the water for I don't know how long. By the time I was able to stand straight again I saw the canoa in trouble. The native had a firm grasp on Eric's head and the one paddling from the rear was feverishly trying to turn the boat into shore. Within seconds all was lost – Eric's last chance gone – as the canoa slammed against a large boulder, toppling the Indians in the water. To save his own life, the one Indian let go of Eric's hair. Both Indians made it to the safety of the shore. Eric's body disappeared in the froth around the rock.
It was shockingly horrifying, especially when I learned Lynne had witnessed the tragedy from the camera's location. She was hysterical with grief. The other members of the company and myself searched until dark for the body, although dreading what we might find.
That night at the Garn Hotel everyone was too shocked to say anything or do anything except retire to the lonely misery of their room to face agonizing hours of torment, knowing that a friend was dead somewhere out there in the merciless wilderness."
