THE NIGHT THE RIVER CAME IN

William Hendryx

Dan Dykstra stood next to his 11-year old daughter, Jennifer, his long arm wrapped round her shoulders, as they peered from their cabin on the Guadalupe River into the rain-filled darkness.

It had rained most of the day, swelling the southern Texas river beyond its banks. But there seemed no need for concern. The wood cabin sat on piles several feet above the flood plain.

"Looks like the worst is over, Jen," said Dykstra at around 10 p.m. "Let's go to bed."

But Jen couldn't sleep. She trusted her Dad, but couldn't help recalling television images of floods and people clinging to treetops, wet and cold. After a couple of restless hours, she started for the bathroom. Stepping on the carpet she noticed it was damp.

She paused, listening intently. What was that sound? It was odd—like the sound of rapids.

It was rapids! And they were rushing directly under the house. She ran to her father's bedside. "Daddy, Daddy," she cried, shaking him violently. "Wake up. There's water in the house!"

Barefoot and wearing only shorts, Dykstra walked to the entry and opened the door. What he saw shook him wide-awake. Duchess, their dog, was standing just outside the door, her feet in six inches of water. That meant the river had to be more than 400 feet beyond its banks, flooding the roadway, their only means of escape.

They were trapped.

The chill water lapped at his ankles. Quickly Dykstra pulled the dog inside the cabin and slammed the door. Then he grabbed two life jackets. "Put this on, honey," he said to Jennifer.

Dykstra looked around. The muddy water was inching up the wood- paneled walls. "What '11 we do?" asked Jen, her voice shaking.

"We'll be fine," Dykstra replied, trying hard to conceal his own anxiety. "Let's go upstairs."

They climbed up the ladder-like stairs to a loft above the living room. From there they could hear the water filling the room below, creeping towards them. Windows exploded under the pressure. The television slammed against the wall.

Suddenly the whole house trembled as if caught in an earthquake. Then it pitched violently upward, before sinking several feet. My God, thought Dykstra. We're floating.

Looking out from the window they could see that they were moving, the house being swept along by the river. Terrified that the cabin would sink, taking them down with it. Dykstra decided they would have to get out. Wrapping his arms tightly round his daughter, he plunged into the icy water.

The cabin was behind them now, chasing them through the darkness. Before he could get out of its path, Dykstra found himself thrown against a submerged tree. An instant later the cabin—pushed by the tremendous power of the river—pinned him to the trunk. His ribs were crushed. His left leg snapped. He screamed.

Then his mind seemed to cut loose. Dykstra felt as if he were watching himself from far off. He saw himself and Jen settling to the bottom of the river. He was surprised by the sense of peace that settled on him. "I'm sorry, honey," he said. "I'm so sorry." And then he lost consciousness.

As he did so the house shifted, releasing him and spinning away from them. Jennifer found herself drifting downstream, her unconscious father beside her. "Don't die, Daddy!" she cried. "Please!"

Perhaps it was the sound of the little girl's voice that stirred Dykstra to consciousness. He gave Jen's hand a gentle squeeze, and her heart jumped.

In the pale moonlight, Dykstra—now more alert—spotted an island formed by some rubbish that had got caught in some treetops. Fighting against the current and his pain he swam towards it. Jen climbed onto the small pile of timbers and pulled her father from the rushing water. He collapsed in pain, shivering and fighting for breath.

They were far from safe and Jen knew it. The rubbish could shift at any moment, plunging them back into the river. She wanted desperately to curl up in her father's arms, but that would only add to his pain. Now, she realized, it was up to her to help him.

Just then she was astonished to see a figure appear out of nowhere. "Duchess!" she shouted, and the wet dog climbed up to join them. She took comfort in the pet's presence.

Every few minutes during the night Jen checked on her dad. "Think about warm things," she told him, "like coffee and fireplaces." She sang to him and prayed.

Morning came, but still no sign of help. The hours dragged by. Around midmorning an airplane flew almost directly overhead, but never slowed. Another passed by a couple of hours later, then a third late that afternoon. Each time. Jen jumped up, waving her arms and screaming. And each time the plane disappeared over the horizon, taking her spirits with it.

As daylight faded, Jen found herself facing the likelihood that they would have to spend another long, cold night on the island. Her father would not survive. And without him, she doubted if she could either. The very thought collapsed all hope. "They're not going to find us," she cried out in despair. "We're going to die."

Just then a voice from somewhere on the distant hillside pierced the darkness. "Hello. Is someone out there?"

Jen sprang to her feet. She shouted back loudly, "Hello. Hello."

"We're going to get help," the voice said. "Just hang on."

Jen knelt by her father's side and rubbed his back to keep him warm. "We'll hang on together," she told him.

Later that night a boat was eventually able to edge its way through the darkness to reach them. Eighteen hours after the cabin had been torn from its foundations and swept away, Jennifer, her father and Duchess were pulled from their island and taken to safety. No trace of their cabin was ever found.