LOONS AND GULLS arc in the vast, blue-gray sky over the island below.
Yet even wheeling far above it, the birds are tethered to Trouble Island. No matter how high they soar, how far south they fly later in winter, or how far north come spring, they will never be able to truly break free.
Instinct draws them to this stretch of forty-six limestone acres flatly topping the lake’s surface, one of many islands in the archipelago dotting the waters of Lake Erie.
On this morning, the birds dive into the lake, seeking whitefish that resurface in November’s cooler water. Intent on their prey, they seem not to notice the purple sandpipers—here on a stopover in their migration from the Arctic Ocean to the Atlantic—running in and out to the rhythm of the waves’ slow reach and retreat.
Away from the shore, platoons of waterfowl bob up and down on the frigid waves.
Inland, owls nest in forests of hackberry, chinquapin oak, blue ash, sugar maple—trees that thrive in shallow soil. Woodland birds rustle around in swatches of poison ivy for the vine’s winter crop of red berries, just now coming on, or glean insects from tree bark.
Of course, none of these birds know about the small blue-and-yellow macaw that lives in a cage in the mansion on the southern shore of the island, though if the macaw were to be set free, some among them might note it as easy prey. Perhaps the northern goshawk, now swooping among the airborne birds whose ancient warbling cries turn frantically warning, but too late. Midair, the goshawk snatches a gull.
The wheeling birds barely notice as I emerge from the woods, running past the old lighthouse and the hulking remains of an iceboat, abandoned alongside it.
Though bundled up in my coat, hat, and boots, I’m shivering.
Not just from spotting the goshawk kill its prey.
Or from the cold.
Or from the anticipation of what I’m about to do.
But from the fear that’s lived in the pit of my stomach ever since I landed on Trouble Island, a fear that claws through my heart, making it pound, and into my throat, making it hard to breathe. The fear that I, like the birds, will remain tethered to the island.
As I let myself into the unlocked, abandoned lighthouse keeper’s cottage, I tell myself no.
I am not like the birds.
This morning, I am finally breaking free.
I set aside my glasses and disrobe down to my homemade full-body swimsuit, swimming cap, and the goggles I keep stowed away in the cottage.
I pick up a fishing knife.
I go back out into the cold. At the edge of the dock, I stare down at the frigid, rollicking waters of Lake Erie. I hesitate just a moment.
Free.
With that promise thrumming in my mind, I plunge into the lake.
The shock is brutal.
I’ve swum in this lake before. I have about two minutes before I’ll need to come up for air, about ten—maybe twelve—before cold will numb my limbs and hypothermia will begin setting in. I also know that here, on this island, especially in the lake, two minutes is an eternity—and so is even one second. Here, eternity can fit into any sliver of measured time.
Though frigid, the water feels good sluicing over my face. I revel in the feeling of strength as my arms stroke to pull me downward, my legs kick to propel me on. I need just a minute to locate what I’m searching for …
But instead what comes into view is a figure.
Face bloated. Arms floating out as if grasping for fish, for water snakes, for me.
Reflexively, I gasp.
Swallow water.
Flail.
Swim back, back, back …