Willie pulled a high-powered flashlight from the canvas sack at his feet, flicked it on, and stood up.
The light burned a hole in the night.
The night was still and dark. The waxing moon hid behind the clouds. We walked in a crouch behind Willie through the dense, stunted spruce. It suddenly occurred to me: What if it were smugglers—the crew of the Sea Wolf—and what if they were hunting us down? We had no weapons (unless you counted hunting knives)—no way to defend ourselves if they had guns. We should be hiding, not heading unarmed toward whatever was coming.
Willie ducked behind a boulder at the water’s edge, and we squatted down beside him as he trained the beam of his flashlight on the star-freckled water. Something big and dark was swimming toward us, across Tide Rip Pass. As it drew closer, we could see a large hump behind a huge head.
“Brown bear!” Willie said.
Cassidy didn’t hesitate. He picked up a rock and fired it at the approaching animal. It splashed a few feet short.
“Don’t!” I said. “You’ll just make it angry!” I remembered Cassidy throwing rocks at the rattlesnake last year, and how if he’d missed, the rattlesnake could’ve bit Lisa.
But then Willie picked up a stone and lobbed it right at the bear’s head.
Soon Roger—and even Dad and Lisa!—were bombarding the poor bear with rocks. I say “poor bear,” but I’d read about them. How the huge, coastal brown bears are fast and unpredictable. Big cousins of the grizzly. I picked up a stone, hefted it in my hand, but I just couldn’t throw it.
But I held it ready, just in case.
Just then the moon burst through the cloud cover and lit up the bear’s big furry face.
It was maybe twenty-five to thirty yards out—about the length of a swimming pool—when it stood up, massive and dripping wet, opened its great jaws, and ROARED at us.
Cassidy and the others stopped firing rocks, and we all jumped back. Then we just stood there, staring at the bear, shrinking back into ourselves.
Finally it snorted and made a huffing sound, then sank back down, turned around, and started swimming the other way, back across Tide Rip Pass.
Cassidy let out a hair-raising howl and yelled, “Adios, old bear!”
“Adios, old bear!” Lisa echoed.
Adios! I said to myself.
There was an eerie silence, just the ripple of the bear through the water, the slightest wavelets breaking quietly against the rocky shore.
I was just about to question the need to throw stones, when Willie, as if hearing my thoughts, started talking.
“Brown bears can climb trees,” Willie said. “I saw them do it in Alaska. If it had come ashore, there’d be no place on this tiny island to hide. And that was a rogue bear; brown bears rarely leave the mainland. It should be on a bank, batting salmon out of a river somewhere. Leave ’em alone and they usually leave you alone. But that rogue was coming toward us. You don’t wait to see what happens with a bear like that.”
“Not that stones were gonna dent that thick skull of his,” Roger said. “But they did turn him back, like a swarm of bees.”
Dad patted Cassidy’s back and said, “Good job, Cassidy. Quick thinking!” It was like a needle stuck in my skin hearing my dad praise him like that. I couldn’t remember the last time he praised me like that. And to think that Dad had actually yelled at Cassidy last year for throwing a rock at the rattler! He’d said it was dangerous and would just make the rattler angry.
And I couldn’t help but think, What if it had been smugglers? Throwing rocks wouldn’t have done much good against men with guns.
“I’ve got pepper spray,” Lisa said, as if reading my mind. “That ole bear wasn’t gonna get in my face!”
It was hard falling asleep after that. I still felt sorry for the bear, but a little relieved, too.
Back in our tent, I played things over and over. The rogue bear coming. The beating of my heart speeding up. The massive bear standing up so close, I could imagine smelling its breath. Its breath of rotten salmon, crushed mussels by the pawful, and fermenting berries.
I replayed the scene till I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or thinking. It became the stuff of dreams.
In the morning I was still angry and upset about my dad praising Cassidy, like he’d done the right thing and I’d done the wrong thing. I almost asked Dad about it when we were packing up, but I felt too out of it, and anyway, I didn’t know what to say.
I wasn’t fully awake until we were in the middle of Tide Rip Pass, heading southwest.
On the ebb tide, tide rips and standing waves challenged us as we hit the juncture of Queens Sound. It was like shooting the rapids in Desolation Canyon, only we were in narrow kayaks instead of wide rafts. Roger had taught me how to brace—holding the paddle flat against the surface and leaning down on it—and had coached us never to allow our kayak to be struck broadside by a wave. But I had to rely on Dad in the cockpit behind me, working the pedals to operate the rudder and steer the boat.
“Whoa!” Willie yelled. “You can flip in this chowder if you don’t watch out!” The sea roiled white around us as we struggled to point the prow at a slight angle into each crashing wave. Water seeped down where my spray skirt wasn’t drawn tight enough. It was puddling on the seat beneath me—and it was cold.
I paddled like a windmill, racing the speed of my heartbeat. Panic was only kept at bay by the sheer total concentration required to get us through.
At last, about halfway to Goose Island, the McMullin Islets provided shelter. With bald eagles watching down at us from atop the tall trees, we paused and rested, as if we’d just climbed a peak. To the east, in the far distance, were the white-tipped peaks of the great continent of North America; to the west were the waves of the vast Pacific Ocean.
And the smugglers—if that’s what they were—were nowhere in sight.
We munched some gorp, drank lots of water, and set back off into the sea of whitecaps. Dad let me sit in back, working the rudder pedals and steering the kayak. It was super cool! I aimed for the glimmer of white sand topped with dark green that was Goose Island.
At last, when we were just offshore, we aimed straight for the beach, waiting for a good incoming wave, and then paddled like crazy, trying to drive our kayaks right up onto the beach.
“Good job, kiddo!” said Dad. There it was, the first time this trip that he’d said it. I glowed with that for a moment—but just a moment, because I was still mad at him. Then I jumped out and pulled the kayak up before the next surge could wash over us, or the backwash pulled us back out.
I shouted and waved to Lisa as she and Roger pulled their kayak up on the beach. She waved back.
This time Lisa and I just threw our gear up higher on the beach, then took off our footwear and started running.
The beach on the northwestern coast of Goose Island was another stretch of paradise. The sand was pure white, composed of clamshells pulverized by the ocean surf. When we raced across it, the sand squeaked beneath our bare feet, like the squeal of basketball shoes on a gym floor.
Again I held my own against Lisa. She laughed, breathless, face flushed with blood, and flung her arms over my shoulders when we came to a stop. I turned around and kissed her briefly—but almost missed her lips.
Yikes! Did I just do that?
It was almost like another person did that. Someone inhabiting my body. Someone with way more daring than me.
I don’t know who was more shocked. It surprised me as much as it surprised her. It wasn’t much of a kiss, but it was our first.
Suddenly she laughed, said, “You’re crazy!” and ran off down the beach.
I looked over her shoulders. Cassidy was already digging for clams in the wet sand.
My lips still burning, my heart still soaring like an eagle, we strolled back to the others, not saying a word, just the backs of our hands lightly brushing as our arms swung.
Had we moved on to another level?
I didn’t know. And I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say? “Hey, wasn’t that fun kissing?” She probably would’ve said something about how clumsy it was, and laughed at me again. I already felt awkward enough without that.
Using small folding camp shovels, we all dug for fresh clams after Cassidy first struck gold.
And in the evening after pulling our kayaks up to the trees, setting up camp, scavenging for driftwood and making a big fire, we ate butter clams, horse clams, bent-nosed clams, and steamers. Cooked by Master Chef Wild Man Willie, it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
We lingered long over the meal. We listened to the washing of the sea as it slid up and down the beach. And looked up at the stars, which seemed to be scrubbing the night with their brightness.
“There’s supposed to be an island of ghost bears out here somewhere,” Dad said, out of nowhere.
“Ghost bears?” I said. “Seriously? Is this another one of your scary stories?”
“No. There are oral stories about them told by some of the Coastal First Nations, but they are really mutated black bears that live up here somewhere, or maybe farther north on the central and northern coast. They’re white, but not albinos. They don’t have pink eyes. They’re a rare version of a black bear, with a mutant gene. Some people call them ghost bears, or spirit bears. They haunt a mist-shrouded island somewhere along this coast.
“Right on!” Cassidy said. “An island of Teenage Mutant Bears!”
Nobody laughed. There was something way too mysterious and haunting about ghost bears to joke about.
But it did lead to some ghost stories.
And we stayed up so late telling scary stories that we watched the tide come in and drown the fire at our feet! Seriously! We watched as it flickered out and bubbles of seawater burst into steam.
Then we laughed as we jumped up, collecting our stuff and backing off from the incoming tide.
Finally, we crawled into our tents, our hearts and bellies full.
We’d made camp well up in the trees, because the wind off the open ocean can blow an empty tent clear out to sea.
Plus we didn’t want to be spotted by the Sea Wolf if it came looking for us.
But I wasn’t ready to sleep. I sat at the mouth of our tent, scraping sand off my feet, and listening in the dark.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. Even bumbled as it was, it still burned on my lips, like the heat of the fire before the tide came in and drowned it out.
Dad was already snoring like a walrus. I made up my mind.
I hopped up and stepped in the dark toward Roger and Lisa’s tent. I hoped she’d come out so we could talk—and maybe even . . . you know . . . other stuff.
But then I heard laughter coming from Cassidy’s tent. It sounded like Lisa.
Bummer.
I hesitated, burning with jealousy.
Then, trying to overcome it, I crept over to Cassidy’s tent and said, “Knock knock,” and ducked my head in. They looked up, startled. They were playing cards, seated cross-legged, facing each other.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound cool. “Can I join ya?”
“Sure, dude. If you wanna play strip poker,” Cassidy said deadpan. They both stared at me. But then Lisa let out a shriek and rolled over laughing.
“That was hilarious!” said Cassidy. “He’s all, like, whaaaaa?”
Suddenly the loud throb and hum of a boat cut him short. Cassidy threw back the tent flap. A powerful spotlight was sweeping the beach.
Through the trees we saw the silhouette of a large fishing boat cruising the shore.
The Sea Wolf.