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Yet, as I survey the waiting crew, all round nervous eyes and hopeful faces, I wish I could emulate Collin Storm’s charisma, at least a bit. He’d know just what to say to get everyone all hyped and confident for this upcoming difficult hike to the camp. Whereas the only thing I can think of right now is some trite (was it Kanye?) saying about how “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
Out here, the air is muggy, the sky is dark and I can practically feel the mosquitoes preparing for the feast of a week. Fan-fucking-tastic.
No sooner have I opened my mouth than I hear movement to my left. Taking out a flashlight, I point its beam at the foliage. But it’s a solid wall of plants and trees and…
The movement is nearing—and fast. The others are whispering and clamoring away, while Harley, who’s already off to the side, just looks to me and asks, “Greyson?”
“It’s OK,” I say, “It’s just—”
“Raaaaaaa!” a creature roars as it crashes out of the trees as I lunge towards it to protect the others.
Seeing our expressions, Russel, on all fours now from his jungle launch, throws back his golden dreadlocked sombrero-topped head and lets out a loud belly-laugh. “You all look like you’ve been chased by a killer woolly mammoth.”
I don’t even try to laugh. “Not the time. We’ve had a long flight.”
Although it is good to see him. A surprise, too. When Madeline told me about everyone leaving, I just assumed that that included Russel, madman that he is. How he manages to be the stunt coordinator, lighting director, and boom operator, and still be as energetic and happy as a sunbathing goat is beyond me, but it works for me. I could use some unfounded enthusiasm right now.
But as he nears me, Russel’s face drops. “You want good news or bad news first?”
“Good news,” I tell him.
“Well.” He smiles. “Good news is that you made it here in one piece.” He nods. “Yeah, OK, now that that’s done with… on to the bad news. First off, the entire crew left with virtually no useable footage and most of the camera equipment. Second, I’m pretty sure I stumbled on a nest of fer-de-lance snakes on my way here—you know, the deadly poisonous ones. Third, weather forecast says rain, rain, and more rain for the next two weeks, but hey, we are in a rainforest, am I right? Fourth, the old campsite got ransacked by monkeys, so we’ll have to go set up another one, deeper in the jungle where there’s more mosquitoes. Five, we still haven’t really figured out how almost everyone got dengue last time.” He stands there, still catching his breath, hands on his hips as he eyes us from behind his coke-bottle glasses. “So, we gonna get going or what?”
“I…” Am literally at a loss for words. After Madeline’s call, I hadn’t expected a smooth ride, but arriving here to find out that we’re expected to trek through a deadly snake-infested, dengue-filled rainforest and shoot a successful show with a fraction of the equipment and staff we need is as close to worst case scenario as you can get.
I turn to the rest of the crew, who look like they’ve been told they have terminal cancer and the apocalypse is in two minutes.
“So…” I trail off. I swallow back the urge to march right back on the plane and tell the pilot to take us back. “This isn’t going to be easy, I’m not going to lie to you. All of us might not even make it.” I glance at Russel. “Russel probably hasn’t even told us all the bad news, either.”
“I sure haven’t,” Russel chirps.
I resist the urge to grab him by his obnoxious lei shirt and give him a good shake. Right now, I have to reassure the others somehow.
But as my gaze scans the others and lands on Harley, something occurs to me. I may be a veteran of grueling treks like these, but this crew isn’t. The crew that was got dengue and got so discouraged by this place that they were forced to leave. And now I’m asking a less-experienced crew to succeed where they failed? And Harley… damn it, she may be determined, but even hearing about it, she has no real idea what she’s getting herself into.
“Honestly,” I tell everyone. “Going home may be the best thing. Or finding a better spot—Russel, do you know of any viable places for StormTV to have an alternative special?”
At this, he brightens, ripping his sombrero off and giving it a flourishing shake. “Well, my dear Mr. Storm, let me tell you. Playa Grande beach has sands like liquid gold, an ocean view like a postcard, and Guaro Sour like Heaven itself.”
“A beach,” I say dully.
While there would certainly be fewer hazards at a beach, there would also be no special. No drama. The whole damn point of StormTV is to capture great shots in genuinely interesting and perilous conditions. Maybe not this perilous, but still. I’m fairly certain there’s no sharks at this beach, and there’s only so much you can play up a crab bite.
