A hundred yards farther on, Baird swung the nose of the boat towards the shore.
‘That is it,’ he said. ‘Mind how you get out. The ground’s like glue along the bank.’
The nose of the boat rammed the bank and sank into it.
‘Get hold of the boat and steady it,’ Baird said.
Rico got out awkwardly. His foot sank up to his ankle in the soft ground. Miserably he held the boat steady while Baird threw their suitcases on to the bank, and then worked his way aft and joined him.
‘Most of the ground near the shore’s like this,’ Baird said, hauling the boat into the saw-grass and picking up the Thompson and his suitcase. ‘Mind you don’t lose a shoe. This stuff pulls like hell.’
He began to walk through the high grass, forcing a passage, pulling one foot after the other out of the swampy ground.
Rico followed as best he could. He felt he was walking through a sea of molasses, and after he had gone a few yards he had sweated right through his clothes.
Baird seemed indifferent to the conditions. He kept on until he reached higher ground, then paused until Rico came panting up.
‘It’s okay here,’ he said. ‘It’s only by the water it’s so soft. Come on, let’s get under cover before these goddamn mosquitoes eat us alive.’