It is 1987, a few miles from the mouth of the mighty Amazon River. As a light mist hangs

over its muddy waters, a whole-king 600 passenger river cruiser is making its gentle journey

toward the sea. In sconce, in one of its rudimentary cabins, three men, no strangers to adventure,

environmentalist Jean-Michel Cousteau, writer Petru Popescu, and photographer Lauren McIntyre,

are enjoying each other's company. Together, they trade tales and make toasts to some of the early

European explorers, who travel those same waters many years before, in somewhat less comfortable

conditions. Before long, as they gaze out at the inscrutable mass of thick jungle passing by,

the men start to wonder about all the Indian tribes that still live to deep within it,

whose existence might still remain unknown to the outside world.

They begin to ruminate on how one might communicate with such a tribe, or how any two people for

that matter could successfully communicate with no apparent linguistic frames of reference.

As Popescu and Cousteau debate the merits and possibilities of grunts and sign language,

they stumble ultimately at the question of just how though to convey more abstract thoughts.

At this, Lauren McIntyre falls silent for a moment and takes a sip of wine.

What if there was a way, he says, looking sheepishly at his two friends? A communication so direct,

no power could find words for it, as Popescu would later write.

What followed was the telling of a story that McIntyre had never shared with anyone before,

something even to that day he wasn't entirely sure, had ever really happened.

You're listening to unexplained and I'm Richard McClain Smith.

The plane banked suddenly to the right, following the path of the river,

as the pilot Mercier kept his eye out for a good spot to land.

In the back, Lauren McIntyre kept his eyes fixed on the jungle below,

...