We knew that sound by now. It was the sound of dread.
And it was coming our way.
The Sea Wolf was somewhere behind us, and gaining steadily. Sound travels far out on the water; there was no telling how distant the boat was. Willie raised his paddle, the signal to regroup. Dad and I coasted up to the others.
“This is the plan,” Willie said. “We separate—three targets are harder to hit than one—then meet up on Sprague Island after dark. According to the chart, there’s a tiny cove tucked into the southeastern corner.” He pulled out the chart and pointed out three ways to get to the cove. Then he handed the chart to Roger, who studied it for a moment and handed it to Dad.
The sound of the motor grew louder. “Whistle like a bird when you enter the cove,” Willie said, whistling softly by way of example.
I tried whistling. So did Lisa and Cassidy. I thought Cassidy might make some joke, but this wasn’t anything to joke about—not even to Cassidy.
“Okay, mate,” was all Roger said.
Willie and Cassidy paddled northwest while Roger and Lisa headed northeast. Dad and I went to what he said was due north, sticking to the channel.
I watched Roger and Lisa’s kayak until it became a tiny yellow dot against the dark blue sea, and then disappeared.
I looked over my shoulder. The silhouette of a fishing boat, maybe half a mile away, was cutting our way.
“Dad, they’re coming! They’re catching up!”
“Let’s pull toward shore,” he said, “and hide out till they pass by.” There was a wooded islet off to the right, the east, maybe three hundred yards away.
I never paddled so hard in my life. We synchronized our strokes so our paddles wouldn’t clash, and skimmed across the sea like a flying fish. The first stars popped out, and the moon, well along toward full, grew brighter.
We slipped like a shadow up to the rocky shore, just as the Sea Wolf pulled even with us, about a quarter of a mile out in the main channel. They were chugging along at maybe ten or twelve knots per hour, sweeping the sea with their spotlight.
They hadn’t seen us. Yet.
I looped my arm around a low, overhanging branch, and we hid out in the moon shadow, barely breathing. My arm grew as rigid as the branch it was attached to.
We waited till the Sea Wolf dwindled to a spot of light in the growing dark, then breathed out through our mouths.
We waited a few more minutes, then pushed off toward Sprague Island in the last shreds of light.
About an hour or two later, Dad whistled softly as we entered the little cove on Sprague Island in the moonlight. I echoed his whistle, then the same whistle floated back to us. We sounded like songbirds with an attitude.
We crawled out of our kayak and hauled it up in among the trees.
Willie had built a small fire beneath a tarp rigged up like a lean-to. “You’re just in time, pard,” he said to me, and winked. “Bring me that big cod you hauled in. I got me some good hot coals here.”
I went back and unhooked the stringer and returned with the still-alive lingcod, slapping against my shin.
“Thanks,” said Willie. “I’ll have this puppy good to go faster than you can say Jiminy Cricket!”
Lisa made room for me on a log. She let her head rest on my shoulder, but just for a moment. Then she went back to huddling over a hot cup of tea, blowing on it. Nobody spoke.
Twenty minutes later—despite the tension we all felt—our mouths watered when Willie pulled the foil-wrapped cod from the coals with his bare hands. He’d done it again. The stars burned, the waves slapped the shore, and the moon poured its white gold down as we ate that big tasty fish with our fingers and moaned in delight.
Lisa and I stayed up late, lying on a bed of moss and gazing up at the sky. A dark cloud passed across the moon.
“I had a dream about Chinese immigrants the other night,” I whispered, and I described it to her. “I don’t know how you got into it, Lisa, but dreams are like that, I guess.”
“I know, right? Dreams can be weird,” she said, barely beyond a whisper. “Sometimes I think they’re trying to tell us something. Maybe you were worried about me, Aaron, but you shouldn’t be. I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, like you took care of yourself when you paddled off alone and then slipped on a rock and almost got yourself drowned.”
I could feel her tense up next to me.
The wild, haunting cry of a loon pierced the night. It almost made me jump.
“I read that native people up here call loons ‘rain birds,’” Lisa said, changing the subject. “If you hear one, it means a storm’s on the way.”
“It’s time for bed, lassie. You too, Aaron” It was Roger, whispering. “We’re breaking camp before sun up.” I’m not sure why we were all whispering. I’m sure even our regular voices couldn’t be heard above the pounding of the surf.
But I guess we weren’t taking any chances.
Roger went to his tent. I rolled toward Lisa and she rolled toward me. Her high cheekbones caught the moonlight, and I could feel her warm breath on my face. The whole world seemed to stand still.
But Roger quietly but insistently called us again, the moment broke, and we crawled off to our separate tents.
That didn’t mean we slept, though. Speaking just for myself, I don’t remember sleeping at all, but sometimes it’s hard to tell between a waking dream and a real dream. Dad “caught a few winks” as he called it. His snoring went from soft and fuzzy to loud and annoying. I kept socking the pillow I’d made out of my clothes, and tossing back and forth.
There was no getting comfortable. There was no peace. I just lay there on the sharp roots and rocks of the island, like the jagged shards of my consciousness.
At the first hint of dawn, we all crawled bleary-eyed and feeling broken-boned out of our damp sleeping bags.
Dad and I walked back out toward our kayak, arms loaded with gear. I was right behind him when suddenly he cried out and slipped on a boulder. He fell hard, right on his elbow.
“You okay, Dad?” I dropped the dry bags and knelt down to help him.
“I’m okay, Aaron.” He tried to catch his breath. “I guess I banged my elbow pretty bad, but I don’t think I broke anything.”
I helped him sit up. He rubbed his elbow and grunted, then I helped him to his feet.
Back in camp, Cassidy told Dad he could go in his kayak and that he’d paddle for both of them. I started to protest, but Dad said, “Thanks, Cassidy. Good idea.”
Yeah, thanks, Cassidy, I said to myself. He was doing Dad a favor, but wasn’t that my job?
Luckily, Lisa cheered me up. She begged to paddle with me—claiming we’d be lighter than Roger and her, and that we’d fly through the water.
“Okay, Lisa,” said Roger. “You’ll fly like a dolphin. I’ll join Willie in his kayak.”
We all helped gather wood for a small, smokeless fire. Ate a light breakfast and tanked up on more coffee. Then broke camp and loaded the rest of our gear on our kayaks, like zombies on fast forward—or at least caffeinated to the gills.
I claimed the rear cockpit before Lisa could—so I could steer—and once Lisa was settled up front, I pushed our kayak into the sea suds, waiting for a backwash to help us out, then jumped into my cockpit.
I felt a little like a sea captain. Nothing could harm us now.
Right?
Only the sound of the sea and the gulls in response.
It’s hard to talk when you’re paddling a two person kayak at sea, but every once in a while, Lisa paused and half turned and said something.
“So, Aaron, we heard the loon last night—the ‘rain bird’—but it hasn’t rained. There’s hardly a cloud. I guess I got my story wrong.”
“Could rain yet!” I said, and splashed her with my paddle.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you just did that! You twerp!” She laughed. “I’m gonna kill you for that!” And she splashed me back. And she got me, good.
“Stop!” I said. “We’re falling behind! We have to keep paddling. Seriously, turn around. Paddle!”
“Who made you the captain, anyway! Hah!” She splashed me once more, then turned around and we started paddling, hard.
All the long day we hugged the shorelines of small island after small island, paddling swiftly, perfectly in sync. It was exhausting but somehow exhilarating, and at this rate, I told myself, we’d make it to the ferry on time the next day.
Tomorrow! I thought.
All of a sudden, I realized that I wanted this trip—which was filled with fear and dread, and a kind of twisted jealousy—to never end.
Life, like dreams, sure can be weird, I thought.
All the good seafood, the wild feeling of adventure, the awesomeness of everything out here—and Lisa, sometimes playful, sometimes sweet—all worked to balance the awfulness of being hunted.
At least, that’s how it felt at that moment.
We were flying across the sea, in the lee of a small island, when the light in the sky changed. Dark clouds had begun to gather. Uh-oh, I thought. Lisa’s rain bird was right! It felt like a storm was coming.
So when we heard the sound of the Sea Wolf, it hit us like a thunderclap.
“In here!” Roger called, pointing his paddle. We followed Roger and Willie through a narrow opening into a large lagoon, encircled by the heavily wooded island. It was slack tide, and the lagoon was as flat as a lake.
It was almost twilight and dark was growing fast. We looked for a place to put in and camp, but stunted spruce grew in a solid mass right down to the waterline. No space for a tent. And we were afraid of being trapped in here if the Sea Wolf found us. There was only one way out.
After a quick circuit, we decided to risk being seen by the Sea Wolf, and slip back out of the lagoon and seek a better haven.
But when we got to the opening, a tidal rip slashed across the way. The tide was rushing back into the lagoon, like rapids through a narrow gorge.
We climbed out onto some rocks to check it out, then Lisa slid into the rear cockpit before I could get there. “Nice,” I said, shaking my head.
Roger and Willie went first and shot through it like pros. Next, Cassidy paddled like the maniac he was—with Dad in front, holding his elbow—and broke through, raising his paddle high over his head, yipping like a coyote.
Now it was our turn. My mouth went dry, my palms were sweating. Here we go! I thought. Lisa aimed our kayak and we paddled like crazy.
But just when we thought we’d broken through, the rip turned the nose of our kayak and hit us broadside . . .
. . . and over we went—ZWOOP!
The next thing we knew, we were hanging upside down from our cockpits, clutched by the icy grip of the current—like the talons of an eagle—pummeled by bubbles.
And we couldn’t roll back up.