Alex McCormack sat beneath a long, narrow shed on the harbor and listened to the rain pelt its metal roof with sounds from the fish market behind him tangled in. He stared out at the gold mining dredges scattered about the Essequibo River when a familiar voice caught his attention.

“Alex!”

Alex turned and saw University Professor Tony Lima trotting toward him with his jacket pulled up over his head as a makeshift umbrella. “Did you bring this weather with you from Florida?” asked the professor with a smile as he shook his jacket beneath the shed of its rainwater like a duck flapping its wings.

“No. It was sunny when I left.”

They shook hands as Professor Lima sat down across from him. “Did you have a good trip into Guyana?”

“Yeah, everything went well.”

“Are you staying here in Georgetown?”

“I have a room rented just around the corner here.” Alex gestured with his thumb as he pointed behind him.

The professor nodded.

“So, did you get me a boatman?” Alex asked.

The professor looked down at his hands, his fingers interlocked into one another beneath a light layer of shadow. “I’ve visited several villages along the river looking for a boatman and everywhere I went they all told me to convince you not to go.”

“I know it’s dangerous.”

“Well, I’m beginning to wonder if you know just how dangerous it actually is. I’ve been doing some more research and since 1900 there’ve been ten expeditions to find and document the widow fish for a total of forty-eight men. Not one of them returned from the jungle. That’s why they call it the widow fish. No man returns home to his wife.”

“I appreciate your concern, and the concern of those you spoke with, but I’m going through with it. It’s my obsession.”

“Just because your great-great-great grandfather wrote a note in the back of a fish encyclopedia about the widow fish doesn’t seem like enough to create an obsession.”

“He had a map, too. I brought a copy with me.” He reached into his right rear pocket, pulled out a map, and unfolded it on the table. “See, this shows where to go. You go past the last village on the river then you travel over five rapids and then the river widens considerably to a large pool and that’s where the widow fish are. And right here on the rock face is an ancient painting of the widow fish with its mouth wide open,” he said as he tapped his balled up fist lightly on the map for emphasis.

“How would he know about a painting on a rock? I’ve never heard of that before.”

“I don’t know where he got his information, but I believe him.”

The professor looked at the map and shook his head. “It’s dated 1912. The river has changed since then. This map isn’t any good now.”

“I know it’s not perfect, but it’ll work.”

“I really think you need to go back home and forget about this adventure.”

“No,” Alex said firmly. “Now, did you get me a boatman?”

The professor sighed and rubbed his cheek stubble with his right hand. “Yeah, I got you a boatman. He’ll be here in the morning.”

Alex smiled and nodded, for he now knew that his twenty-five year obsession of catching the widow fish was finally going to get started.

When the sun arose on Day One of his expedition, Alex felt nervous but confident. He had a driver take him and his gear to the harbor where he unloaded everything and waited. About nine o’clock, two boats roughly twenty feet long powered by engines that looked older than he was pulled into the harbor, and he was positive that one of them would be his boatman. He watched them tie off their boats and he made his way over to them. “Are one of you the boatman for Alex McCormack?”

The older of the two smiled a toothless grin and shook Alex’s hand. “Yes,” he said in broken English. “I and my son will take you to fish.”

“Great. I’ll get my stuff.” Alex gathered his crates of supplies, backpack, and fishing gear, and the son helped him. “What’s your name?” Alex asked.

“I’m Palmer and my father’s name is Livy.”

“I’m Alex. I’m really glad you agreed to help me.”

“I’m excited about it myself. I’ve always heard stories about the widow fish and jumped at the chance.”

“Let’s hope neither of us regrets it.”

They laughed and continued to load the boats.

After about a half hour of refueling and loading supplies, the two boats headed out. Alex sat in the front of Livy’s narrow boat with gear piled between them. The rest of the supplies were in Palmer’s boat. There was no talking over the loud engines, so all Alex could do was look at the deep flanking jungle on both sides of the river which brought the whole scope of the expedition’s danger into a sharper focus. Every now and then, he would see another boat venturing the other way. He gave a gentle wave and they waved back.

As the sun began to set, filling the sky in cascades of yellow hues and red dyes, Alex wondered about the plan for the evening. Suddenly, he felt the boat slow and makes a left turn toward a small pier. They pulled in gently and Livy turned off the engine. Alex stood to tie off the boat, and as he did, he saw about ten children run down toward him laughing. He was a bit surprised but thought it wonderful. “Looks like we’ve got a welcoming party.”

Livy laughed. Palmer pulled his boat up beside them, turned off his engine, stood, and stretched. “How did you do, Alex?” said Palmer.

“Good, just a little stiff from sitting all day. Is this where we’ll sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll get my things. I’m getting a little hungry.”

They made their way into the village where they were greeted by the village elders, given red tail catfish to eat, and shown a place to sleep. They turned in early and slept unbothered.

The routine quickly sank in. They rose before sunrise, ate as much as possible, then hit the river and didn’t stop until they arrived at the next village that evening. They were greeted warmly, then headed out onto the river the next morning at sunrise like soldiers on a mission for the King.

The third day was the same, but the next village seemed different in a way Alex couldn’t exactly pinpoint. They were met with respect, but not warmly. Everyone was very low key. There was an elaborate dance by the fire that night, with drums beating and lots of costumes and a drink that scared Alex to take, but did so out of respect.

Afterwards, along about two in the morning, he was stirred awake by Palmer. “Get up. We have to get out of here,” Palmer whispered as he shook Alex violently.

Alex was confused. “What’s wrong?”

“We have to leave now.”

“Okay, let me get my things.”

“The boat is already packed. We have to leave now.” Palmer grabbed Alex by the arm and pulled him out of the small hut, quickly making their way down to the boats.

When Livy saw them coming, he started the boat’s engine. “Hurry hurry hurry,” he said in a panicked whisper.

Alex got in the boat and noticed his camera gear was missing. “I forgot my camera gear.”

Palmer grabbed him by the arm. “Shut up. They’ll hear us.”

“I’ve got to get my camera. I have to document the widow fish if we catch it.”

“I said sit down and shut up or we’ll leave you here. Do you understand me?”

Alex said nothing. He just sat down and worried as the boats pulled out into the current and headed deeper inside the jungle, led by the dim light of their headlamps.

Finally, when the ominous dark was curtained away by the jungle sunlight, Livy turned off his engine and Palmer came up beside them and turned off his.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Alex pleaded.

Palmer looked at Alex, “The tribal chief got sick last night and they blamed you for it. Said you brought a sickness into the village from America and that the only way to make the chief better was to kill you.”

“Did you give them my camera gear to appease them?”

“Yes. I told them they could sell it in Georgetown and they could buy medicine for the chief. They said they would take it before the elders, but we decided to leave in case they said no.”

“I understand what you did, but now I have no way to document anything that I find. All I have is my word, and that isn’t scientific evidence.”

“At least you’re alive,” Palmer uttered.

They came upon the next village as the sun set. Alex knew this was the last village on the river. Starting tomorrow, they’d be camping on the river bank in the depths of the jungle. The village treated them well, but he was still on edge after the previous night’s fiasco. The three men indulged in a large dinner, knowing it would be their last good meal for a while. As Alex got ready to turn in, he heard arguing outside his hut. Through his window, he saw Palmer and Livy down by the boats, in the midst of a heated discussion. Alex didn’t give it too much consideration—just a father and son that had spent too much time together for the past few days. He was sure it would pass by morning.

In the morning, Alex awoke, looked down at the river, and noticed the two boats gone. Then, he noticed a villager by a dugout canoe full of Alex’s supplies. He panicked and ran to speak to the man. “Where are Palmer and Livy?”

The villager pointed back toward Georgetown. “They go home,” the man said in broken English.

His words lashed him like a bullwhip. “Why did they leave?”

“Afraid of the widow fish. Didn’t want to die.”

Alex’s well-disciplined plan, full of expectations, had now been decapitated from its original form and dispossessed of all of its cohesion and momentum. Then, he noticed one thing missing. “Did they take my food rations with them?”

“They trade for this boat. It’s a good boat. I build it.”

Alex examined the dugout canoe. The first thing he noticed was a paddle instead of an engine. The boat looked very heavy, and there were rapids ahead which he knew he’d have to forage around in the skirts of jungle. He didn’t know if he could actually pull the boat along through that. He would have to set camp by himself and fish for his food every evening. But he was here. His obsession brought him this far and now it would have to see him through a terrifying jungle.

Alex got in the boat, paddle in hand, and the villager pushed him off. Within a few minutes of his new found solitude, it already looked like he had passed into another time, for there existed no remaining hint of civilization. Bird calls echoed all around him. Monkeys leaped from trees and called to one another as they sat on their branches and watched him. Startling splashes came from the river caused by unknown beasts.

As the day passed, soreness deepened in his shoulders and his energy waned. His watched read three o’clock. He decided to go ahead and look for a place to camp, as it would take some time to get everything set up and he had to fish for his supper.

Alex maneuvered the boat to a sandbar and secured it to a tree. His ears picked up a light roar in the distance. He walked around the river bend and finally saw what he had feared the most: rapids. The rapids rushed and foamed white; there was no way he could go through them, but that was a challenge for tomorrow.

He sat up his tent, got some wood, and started a fire. He got his fishing pole, put a fly on the hook, and casted his strength-tested, one-hundred-fifty-pound braided line with a wire trace into the calm water. It worked immediately. He reeled in the catch and found a small piranha on his hook. After his meal, he turned in for the night. Flies bit at him constantly bringing forth welts all over his body. Cockroaches stormed the ground, found their way into his tent, and crawled up his legs and back.

The morning brought sheets of rain. He was losing time but wasn’t sure if he could continue. Fortunately, after three hours, the rain stopped and streaks of sun began to salt through the outstretched trees.

He exited his tent, took down his camp, and carried it piece by piece through the edge of jungle and over a very narrow spot that stood some ten feet above the river’s edge. The mud made it slick, but if he meant to go forward, he would have to endure the jungle at its worse.

After moving his camp below the rapids, he got his machete, cut branches that were a minimum of two inches in circumference and three feet in length, and laid them down on the ground to act as rollers for his boat. Satisfied with their placement he untied his canoe from the tree and tried to pull it out of the water, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried to push it from behind, but that was also no use. It was too heavy.

Alex screamed at his situation’s mayhem. If he was going to continue his expedition, he either had to go through the rapids on the canoe and risk losing the boat or simply walk from here on out along the edge of jungle.

But there really was no decision.

He had to leave the boat here and walk the rest of the way.

Alex retrieved some more rope and tied the boat up with three separate lines to the tree. He feared he might lose the boat, especially after experiencing the rain the jungle can offer which could swell the river out of its banks. When he was satisfied the boat was secure, he packed his essentials into one backpack and journeyed on with pole and tackle box in hand.

His regimen did not vary over the next weeks. Get up at sunrise, take down his camp, eat any fish left over from the previous night, walk, set up camp around three in the afternoon, start a fire and boil some drinking water from the river, catch fish for supper and breakfast, sleep, wake up and swat insects and spiders, sleep, wake up to the sounds of Kaman, sleep, wake to the sounds of jungle beasts, sleep, repeat. The journey assaulted his senses with confusion and disorientation. He grew tired; his muscles ached; and he was always either hungry, thirsty, or both. He lost count of the number of rapids he’d gone by after seven, which was two more than the map stated. His obsession was now becoming his coffin.

On day twenty, as the time approached three o’clock, he was going to pitch his camp ahead on a sandbar when he noticed how the river had a deep bend and opened up into a very wide pool. This looked to him like the description on the map. Alex then saw a rock face covered by vines. He cut them away, revealing the painting of a giant fish, its mouth was fully opened, showing jagged teeth.

He had made it.

This was the spot described in his great-great-great grandfather’s writings and map.

Alex dropped his pack, walked over to the pool edge, and stared at the water. He couldn’t get over how clear it was. He stood just behind a fallen log when he noticed a shadow reflecting off the water.

But something wasn’t right.

The shadow was moving.

It was a black fish with a deeply forked tail and a thin yellow stripe going down its side. Its body was shaped like that of a sailfish, muscular and lean; its head was large; and the mangle of teeth that filled its mouth resembled that of the Goliath Tiger Fish.

Alex retreated a few steps in fear that the fish could jump up and grab him. That’s when he realized the fish was the same length of the log. The fish slowly swam away into the middle of the river and disappeared into the depths.

Alex took a measuring tape from his pack and measured the log, which came out to be twenty-one feet, three inches. An overwhelming surge coursed through him. This is why no one ever returned from their quest to catch the widow fish. It had killed them all.

He set up camp and considered his next step. He didn’t want a grueling fight with the widow fish, instead wanting to wait until after getting some rest, but he had to cast his line into the river for something to eat. If what he caught ended up being the widow fish, then so be it. Alex strapped his knife to his left forearm. If the widow fish pulled him toward the water, he could cut the line without losing his pole. He used one of his small flies and waited for something to strike.

After a couple of hours of no action and several changes of lures, he considered the idea of a new strategy. Just then, he glanced to his right and saw a crayfish on the edge of the bank. He reeled in his line then picked up the crayfish to use as bait. As he returned to his fishing spot, he noticed a white rock stuck out of the ground, but while digging it up, he found it wasn’t a rock. It was a skull. This had to be one of the forty-eight that had journeyed here to catch the widow fish.

With this new found perspective Alex took his fly from his line, put on a hook, speared its point into the crayfish, and cast it into the immaculate, sun struck water—clear, cool, and inviting. The air was quiet. The humidity lessened since earlier in the day. The sounds of the jungle seemed more tender to the ear and charmed the senses into near-relaxation.

Then, the monster struck.

The rod vaulted into action as its form curved down violently, almost tapping the water’s surface with its tip. The sound of line being ripped through the reel’s heavy drag purged the quiet.

Alex’s moment to either conquer his quest or perish in his journey’s failure had arrived.

The creature flailed wildly in the water. It darted upstream then downstream, leaped fully out of the water, then crashed back into its foaming spray. Its muscles expanded and contorted in every imaginable form as it fought.

Sweat poured like rain across Alex’s flesh as the fish inched him toward the river’s edge. He was afraid he would be pulled in and thought about cutting the line, but he was able to struggle back to safety by allowing line out and repositioned himself on better ground.

As day sprinted toward night, the widow fish never faltered in stamina. The turbulent water gave the appearance that a storm had been swallowed whole by the jungle river and was attempting to escape through lightning flashes and balls of thunder. Inside this war of chaos, the river monster began swimming in a tight circle as fast as it could for a final emboldened charge. It then arrowed upward through the water surface and, while in the air, pulled back hard with a tight half twist. The momentum generated from the acrobatic maneuver created such a trauma to the equipment’s core that the rod fractured along its flank, then snapped into three pieces which sent Alex tumbling backwards hard onto the rocks and crusted sand inside severed wraps of yellow line.

“No!” he shouted, just before the jungle plunged into a resounding silence.

Exhausted, hungry, sore, and now defeated, Alex’s trip that began with so much ambition ended in a shattering collapse on a jungle riverbank with expensive equipment splintered inside the grip of his raw, bloody hands. He gasped for breath as he lay on his back with insects buzzing about his face in the now deep ebony dark. Depression filled him at first, but as he pulled himself up, he relived the glorious battle in his mind again and again.

He camped the night, then headed for home the next morning. The trip definitely had its success, as he now knew that all of those who came before were right. The widow fish was a real beast, not some fisherman’s myth.

Next year, he’d be back to prove it to the world.