We’re gonna sink! We’re gonna lose all our gear! Geez, I thought, we’re gonna drown!
Our kayak dropped and slid at an angle into the dark water below. SPLOOSH! The front of the kayak plowed in and most of the boat went underwater. Good thing we were zipped into our cockpits so no water could get into the boat. Then our kayak popped back up and slammed the surface with a huge splash.
Our companions watched with mouths wide open until Cassidy let out a hoot and a laugh.
Soon—though still shaken—we were all laughing, shouting “Thanks!” and “Anchors away!” to the deckhands, with more sarcasm than gratitude.
But dread soon started to seep back in—at least for me. Now here we were, three kayaks at midnight, rising and falling with the low swells off the village of Bella Bella, the sea a scattered nest of stars, and we—lost birds.
As we drifted there, not sure which way to go, Roger went back to telling us about Bella Bella, “All this land around us is an Indian reservation—”
“It’s called a ‘reserve’ in Canada, Dad,” Lisa cut in. “And native people are called ‘First Nations’ or aboriginals.” We were soon to learn that she’d been reading a book about the area, just like my dad.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” said Roger. “Anyway, it’s the home of the Heiltsuk or the Bella Bella, one of the many First Nations of the Pacific Northwest Coast. And—unfortunately for us—it’s off-limits at night to kayakers and campers without permission.”
At this hour, Bella Bella was just a scattering of lights, like a few fallen stars amid the vast darkness.
We drifted a few more moments in silence. Then Roger said, “We’ll have to find some place to put in for the night. Okay? So let’s roll, mates!” This in his usual jolly voice—despite the late hour.
“Uh, which way, Rog?” my dad asked tentatively. He sounded as lost as I felt.
“North. We’ll be heading north, and then west in the morning.”
“Actually,” Cassidy said, “you don’t have a clue where we’re gonna put in tonight, do ya? I say we sneak into Bella Bella—”
“Cassidy—” Willie said.
“It’s okay, Willie,” said Roger. “He’s right about not knowing where to go. We’re just winging it. We’ll just have to find an island by blind luck, or paddle all night trying.”
“I’m getting cold, Dad,” Lisa said. “Can we get going now?” She wasn’t one to complain, but there was a chilling sea breeze beneath the summer stars, and Dad and I were a little wet from our plunge, and getting colder by the minute. I was still seasick, and ready to dive under a warm rock in any dry place, and sleep.
“Let’s get this show on the road!” Willie barked.
“Yee-haw!” sang Cassidy.
“And yippie-ki-yay!” Roger yodeled, then took off with Lisa, heading north. Cassidy and Willie paddled after them, with Dad and me following behind.
At first, Dad and I kept whacking our paddles together. I was up front, so I figured Dad had to synchronize with me. After awhile, we got better at it.
And it was kinda cool. Our kayak rode so low, it felt like we were inside the water. Gliding through the water like a pro.
Given that this was our maiden voyage in a sea kayak, I think we were pretty awesome.
After awhile, we started to cluster close together and slow down. We were getting tired. Willie started telling us stories, maybe to keep us alert. “When Cass and I worked in Alaska, we heard stories about fishing boats smuggling drugs . . . or illegal immigrants. Back in 1999—maybe you heard about this—the Canadian police intercepted boats and ships with hundreds of illegal immigrants from China in their holds, being smuggled in by human traffickers—”
“I don’t think they say ‘illegal immigrants’ anymore,” Lisa cut in. “They say ‘undocumented migrants,’ or ‘undocumented immigrants’ now.”
Willie laughed. “I can’t keep up with the politically correct lingo, Lisa, but thanks. Anyway, I’ve heard that a lot of, uh, undocumented migrants are flying in from China now with false passports, but there’s still some coming in on fishing bo—”
Suddenly we heard the sound of a motor zooming our way. A searchlight swept the water and a motorboat filled with shadowy human shapes spun around us, rocking our kayaks in its wake.
The driver slowed the motor to an idle and said, “Hey. It’s after midnight, folks. What are you doing out here? Fishin’ without a license?”
“Uhh, umm,” Roger stammered.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, we heard some laughter from their boat.
“Aw, I’m just messin’ with ya,” the driver said, chuckling. He shifted the searchlight away from our eyes, adjusted his baseball cap, and said, “You get dropped off by the ferry? We don’t get many kayakers here. Anyway, we call Bella Bella ‘the Rock,’ and you can’t camp there. But no worries, I’ll hook you up with a place to camp. Follow me.”
I think we all let out a sigh of relief, then paddled after him as he slowly took off.
“Crazy Indians,” Cassidy said, but just loud enough for us to hear.
“Zip it!” said Willie.
“That’s so not cool!” Lisa said.
“Sorry,” Cassidy said. “Crazy First Nations.”
“Shut up!” Lisa cried. She liked Cassidy—a lot, I feared—but he could get under her skin. He could get under anybody’s skin. I don’t even think he was trying to be mean, just get noticed or something. He liked attention.
I reminded myself that Cassidy had no mother and lived a rough life on the edge with Willie. And I happened to know that his best friend was a Spokane Indian. But does that make it okay? I wondered.
We paddled hard along the shore, following the motorboat, till we finally came to a small cove. Tall, dark trees loomed over us. And there, around twenty yards from shore, floated a large wooden barnacle–encrusted raft.
“Here you go!” said the driver. “You can sleep on the raft. And you’re in luck—no rain tonight. We get loads of rain up in these parts.”
“Much appreciated, pard,” Willie said, and we all thanked him. Willie came from Eastern Washington, out in dry ranch country, and he said “pard” in a kindly, country way. Except when he was mad. And right now, he wasn’t.
“No problem,” said the driver. “Just watch out you don’t roll off the raft and fall into the drink!” A few hoots and howls from the motorboat as he gunned it into the dark and disappeared.
We slid in alongside the anchored raft and I climbed out—careful not to tip the boat—and tied us off before Dad could get up and out with his gangly legs.
The raft was just large enough for all six of us to unroll our sleeping bags.
There was no moon that I could see, but the sky was swarming with stars, and our eyes had grown accustomed to the star-pricked dark. We had eaten dinner aboard the ferry, so we didn’t have to set up a camp stove and cook before bedding down. I managed to lay out my down bag between my dad and Lisa, and munched on an energy bar.
Lisa said, “Wow! That sky is crazy, Aaron! Just look at those stars!”
“I know, right? Amazing!” It was like it was just the two of us, and this was our own personal sky.
Dad wanted to point out the constellations but I cut him off. “I gotta sleep now, Dad. It’s the middle of the night!”
“Fine, kiddo. Sleep tight.”
I swallowed the last of my energy bar and rolled over toward Lisa, but now I realized I couldn’t talk to her after telling Dad I had to go to sleep
But I whispered, “’Night, Miss Starlight.”
She poked me—hard—with her sharp elbow and went, “Ewww! A little cheesy, dontcha think, Aaron?” Then she giggled, and rolled away.
That night, cocooned in our sleeping bags, we floated peacefully under the stars. The raft gently rocked and lulled us off to sleep.
