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Together we slowly moved John and the pack as close as we could to the the concrete bank. Radio tried to find some handhold on the side to pull himself out but all he got for his trouble was a bad case of broken fingernails and scratched palms. No littering signs whipped past us every few minutes with "Don't Mess With Texas! Up to $2,000 Fine!" on them. They zoomed past less than ten feet out of our reach. I was beginning to feel like the three of us were going to end up polluting Galveston Bay. I wondered if they would ticket us for dying in the city's murky overflow.


"I'm tired Dad." he yelled. "I can't get on this stupid bank. It's too slippery. This water stinks. How come those dogs attacked us, Dad, when we were trying to help them. Did you see them kill that cop. It was soooo gross..." I couldn't believe the kid was still running his mouth while we were floating on the edge of the big chill. "...Hey Dad, we got problems here. How we gonna get out. I'm cold dad. Hey how come Big John's pack floats so good. Is he gonna die Dad?..."

Something came crawling out of my unconcious. "Why did Big John's pack float so well?" I realized that I wasn't holding John up. His pack was supporting all three of us. That made no sense because I knew it was filled with tools. Then I realized John had packed a few medical items and a little food in a big plastic cooler to keep them dry. It filled the major chamber of his backpack and obviously had enough air in it to save our lives...at least for the moment.

As we floated hell-bent for the Gulf of Mexico, a crazy plan started to form in my mind. I told Radio to keep John's head out of the water and started digging around the side pockets of the pack and after a minute's struggle found the nylon rope I was looking for. It took several dunkings, ample cursing and two rest periods but I eventually succeeded in tying the small crowbar we had brought to one end of the nylon cord and the other end to John's pack in a way that I was reasonably sure would hold together.