On hands and knees, he searched the sands of the river bed, fumbling in the dim light that filtered through the rushing water.
An hour later he gave up.
The shifting, water-driven sand already had closed the trench he had dug to the lock and there was now no point of getting to the lock, for he could not open it when he got there.
His shirt and trousers had vanished with the current.
Wearily, beaten, he turned toward the shore, forcing his way through the stubborn water. His head broke into open air and the first stars of evening were shining in the east.
On shore he sat down with his back against a tree. He took one breath and then another, willed the first heartbeat, then the second and a third…nursed the human metabolism back into action once again.
The river gurgled at him, deep laughter on its tongue. In the wooded valley a whippoorwill began his measured chugging. Fireflies danced through the blackness of the bushes.
A mosquito stung him and he slapped at it futilely.
A place to sleep, he thought. A hay-loft in a barn, perhaps. And pilfered food from a farmer's garden to fill his empty belly. Then clothes.