“No, Mike!” Sandy shouted. “You’ll be carried away!” He held his rope over his head. “I’m going to try to throw this!” he yelled.
But even as Sandy reared back to heave the line, he knew the light rope would never carry all the way to the shore. He felt the log jam shudder and move a few inches closer to the rapids. He put every ounce of his strength into the throw, but the rope didn’t even reach halfway.
Sandy’s mind raced over the possibilities of escape. There had to be a way out. There just had to!
“Sandy!” It was Mike calling out to him. “Get ready and watch your eyes!” Sandy saw that Mike had taken up his fly rod and was about to cast. Suddenly, as he realized what Mike had in mind, his heart gave a leap. It might work!
“Go ahead!” he shouted, ducking underneath a branch. Following the instructions Sandy had given him, Mike brought up his rod in a free and easy motion. The line hummed through the reel and floated above Sandy’s head. As the lure hit the water a few feet to Sandy’s left, he reached out for it blindly, ignoring the risk of a ripped finger. But the current carried it in a mocking dance, just out of reach.
Back on shore, Mike patiently reeled in his line and set himself for another try. The log jam was breaking up now. Sandy could feel it sway and give with each push from the river. He knew there wasn’t much time left.
Mike’s rod snapped forward and, as Sandy watched, the glittering lure flashed through the air to settle lightly on the coarse bark of a branch six inches from his head.
Sandy felt the blood hammering in his temples as he maneuvered himself over to the hook that seemed to hang there by a thread. With a trembling hand, he reached out and snatched at the line. As his fingers closed around it, he allowed himself a gasp of relief.
“I’ve got it!” Sandy cried hoarsely.
“Hurry up!” came a deep voice from the shore. Sandy looked up to see Mr. Cook and Joe standing tensely beside Mike. “The jam’s about to give!”