Chapter 18: Determined to Conquer the Waters for Three Thousand Miles

The torrential rain came down like arrows, striking the surface of the river and exploding like oil in a sizzling pan. Everywhere, the water was torn open by the relentless downpour.

It was early morning, and with the rain, the temperature hovered just above ten degrees. Immersed in the water, Wang Qiang felt the dark currents swirling around him, the pressure mounting, and his pores contracting from the icy chill seeping into his skin. He couldn’t help but chatter his teeth, quickly wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing for warmth as a makeshift warm-up.

Going into the water without warming up was dangerous, especially with no one around on such a stormy morning. If he cramped up, he might never come out again. The village elders would probably spin some tale about a “drowning ghost” to warn children away from the riverbank, turning him into a cautionary example.

“So cold,” Wang Qiang muttered, wiping the water from his face. He locked his eyes on the floating bamboo pole, tilted his body forward, and began paddling with a doggy-paddle stroke, head above water.

The bamboo pole ahead seemed to be tugged by something, drifting steadily southward.

Across the vast river, the wild wind swept up the dark clouds, lashing rain stinging his face like needles. Wang Qiang sliced through the water like a bolt of white lightning.

Sometimes he grazed the waves with both hands; sometimes he shot forward like an arrow. With every breath, his desire for that bamboo pole grew more intense.

It was only a dozen meters away. Wang Qiang swam with all his might, the pole looming larger in his vision, drawing ever closer. Just a few more strokes and he could grab it. A surge of strength exploded within him, arms and legs pushing the water behind him. In a matter of moments, he was right beside the pole.

Just then, thunder rumbled, and the waves roared with angry foam. The gale lifted layers of water, hurling the bamboo pole another half-meter away, splattering the jade-green river with spray and mist.

“Damn it.” Wang Qiang cursed. He had been so close, only for a twist of fate to snatch it away.

But this only stoked his determination. A line of poetry flashed through his mind: “Confident I could live two hundred years, I would swim three thousand miles.”

The poet’s meaning was clear: If life could last two centuries, what couldn’t I accomplish? While living two hundred years is impossible in modern times, poetic exaggeration is within bounds, expressing a longing for longevity, hope, and an unyielding zest for life and the future.

Was Wang Qiang any different?

“To struggle against the heavens,” he muttered, rolling over and swimming again.

“To struggle against the earth.” He broke through the waves.

“To struggle against men.” He was now only a foot from the pole.

“What endless joy!”

This time, he didn’t give fate another chance to toy with him. Wang Qiang slapped the water with his right hand and seized the bamboo pole. Water splashed up in sharp contrast to the pounding rain.

He’d got it.

He’d finally got it!

Delight bloomed within him. Treading water, he gasped for breath, and once he’d caught it, he began swimming slowly toward the shore.

Yet the bamboo pole seemed to resist, as though something was pulling it back.

“Must be a turtle,” Wang Qiang’s eyes lit up. Not caring if he might hurt it, he pulled with all his strength.

The river was only three or four meters across, and he had barely two meters left to the bank. With little effort, he waded ashore, water streaming from his clothes.

“Huff, ptooey, ptooey.” Wang Qiang spat out the river water and shook his hair vigorously, sending droplets flying. Instead of climbing onto dry land, he braced himself in the rain and tugged at the pole.

The hook’s prize must be in pain, for its resistance had weakened. Soon, he drew it closer.

Gradually, a shadow surfaced—blue-black against the water.

One last pull, and a triangular head with round, beady eyes appeared. It was indeed a turtle!

Wang Qiang could barely contain his joy. He gripped the nylon line with both hands, pulling it in. In a few motions, the turtle broke the surface, its blue-black shell like a defeated soldier’s armor, drooping in resignation at his capture.

Wow, it looked even bigger than the last one!

It was nearly as large as one of those old steel pots on a clay stove.

Wang Qiang scooped up the turtle, feeling its weight—easily a pound and a half. Even though his lips were purple with cold, he smiled with satisfaction. All that effort had been worth it.

He’d intended to check the fish traps, but after catching the turtle, he changed his mind. He hurried through the wind and rain, wading across puddles and weaving through reeds toward his family’s western plot. Several times, he nearly slipped on broken reeds, but his agility saved him from injury.

He found his sandals, tossed the turtle into a lead bucket, grabbed his umbrella, and headed home.

As soon as he got back, Wang Qiang washed himself with hot water and changed into dry clothes. Warmed through, he thought he’d nearly frozen to death outside.

Then he went to his mother’s room for a pair of scissors, cut the fishing line, and after freshening up, sat down to a satisfying meal of pickled melon and edamame with rice soaked in hot water.

Outside, the rain had slackened, now only a steady drizzle.

After eating, Wang Qiang washed the dishes and waited until seven-thirty, but the rain had not stopped. He didn’t hesitate any longer, picked up his oil-paper umbrella and the lead bucket, and went out.

...

The Jin Gong Machinery Factory was five hundred meters east of Minqiang Town.

When Wang Qiang arrived, he wasn’t quite sure—before him were high walls and old workshops. Was this really the Jin Gong Group he remembered? It bore no resemblance to a listed company.

Then he realized—the factory was still in its infancy, not yet the future Jin Gong Group with its six-story palatial office building.

He stood under the eaves at the entrance, set down the lead bucket, shook out his umbrella, and noticed two or three people in raincoats riding bicycles past him. Puzzled, he glanced at the clock in the gatehouse. It was already 8:10. Wasn’t the workday supposed to start at eight?

A sixty-year-old man in plain clothes sitting by the window spotted him and tapped on the glass. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Wang Qiang smiled, “Sir, I’m looking for your boss, Mr. Lu.”

The old man replied, “What do you want with Lu Dahai?” There was no trace of respect in his tone—clearly, Lu Dahai had only recently taken over the factory and hadn’t established his authority.

“Oh, last time Mr. Lu said if I caught a turtle, I should bring it to him,” Wang Qiang explained.

The gatekeeper snorted. “I said Lu Dahai doesn’t know how to run a factory—all he thinks about is eating. How big is your turtle? Let me see.” He strolled over, hands behind his back, and glanced into the bucket. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Whoa, that’s a big one! The bucket’s barely big enough. You don’t see those every day.”

Wang Qiang beamed. “Not bad, about a pound and a half.”

“Impressive,” the old man said, eyes glued to the bucket. “Must have been a struggle. Those creatures aren’t easy to catch.”

Wang Qiang thought to himself that he’d used all his strength, but outwardly he said, “Not at all—it crawled ashore and I caught it.”

The gatekeeper cast him a look of envy. “You’re lucky.”

Wang Qiang didn’t have time to chat. “Could you let Mr. Lu know? I need to deliver the turtle and head back.”

“What’s the need? Go on in yourself.” The old man pointed lazily to the second workshop on the left. “I just saw Lu Dahai head into the grinding shop. The second one, see?”

Wang Qiang was a little surprised—was security really so lax? But since it saved him trouble, he thanked the old man, picked up his bucket, and walked in, feeling very pleased. With a turtle this big, he ought to fetch a good price.