Swimming the Piranha Run

The Amazon has many warnings. Most of them involve things that want to eat you, things that want to infect you, and things that want to do both in sequence. The Piranha Run is a narrow channel near Manaus where red-bellied piranhas congregate when the water drops. Locals say don't swim. Travel guides say don't swim. Carl wrote a blog post about river cruises with a buffet. I said I'd swim.

My guide was a fisherman named João who had lost a toe to a piranha at age nine and considered it a learning experience. He provided no boat escort, no protective mesh, and excellent advice: "Don't bleed." I said I was a cactus. He said piranhas don't read botany. Fair point.

I entered the water at dawn when piranhas are supposedly less aggressive — a myth João confirmed was mostly for tourists. The water was brown, warm, and full of eyes. I swam fifty meters across the channel using a stroke I invented called "don't look like food." My spines protruded above the surface like a warning flag. Something nibbled my hat. I kept swimming.

I reached the far bank without losing anything essential. João was impressed in the way people are when they witness something they'll tell their grandchildren about with disclaimers. Carl would have filmed from the boat. I stood on the bank dripping river water and piranha-adjacent legend. João asked if I wanted to swim back. I walked around instead. Even I have standards. Some.