There was a jolt when they reached the end of the towline and the trailing canoes snapped into line, slowing their momentum. They strained at their paddles to get the line of boats moving faster than the waves, and Annette had a brief, passing doubt that this was going to work. It was one thing to run with the wind in a canoe. It was quite another to do it towing other canoes. How would that work? She checked the short-bladed knife clipped to her flotation vest to make sure it was at the ready. If things got bad, she’d cut the towlines.
Pender was on an adrenaline high. Sitting in the bow, his only job was to supply power and to switch sides when Annette told him to. It would be a mute crossing—he could hear her if she screamed; she wouldn’t hear him until they got out of the wind. Ten miles with a howling tailwind. It would be a wilderness thrill ride, the ultimate last outing in Quetico.
Though they had never paddled a tandem canoe together, they found a paddling rhythm quickly and they were very fast. They focused on the navigation landmarks, the direction of the wind, the direction of the waves, the thickening clouds slowly covering them in dim light.
Halfway to their next landmark, Pender glimpsed movement in the corner of his vision. He looked north and sighted a canoe, light colored, two paddlers hugging the shoreline, coming out of Stanton Bay, on a southeasterly heading.
“It’s the khaki people!” Annette shrieked from the stern.
Pender nodded in agreement. The white canoe, the smallish figure in the bow seat, the slow hull speed, the bow paddler stroking daintily, the stern paddler working hard. Had to be the khaki princess and her loyal subject. They must have gone for the Stanton Bay take-out, figuring it was much closer than French Lake, only to find it closed off from the outside world, just like Annette had predicted.
Annette and Pender watched the canoe with growing horror. The khaki people were hugging the shoreline, probably feeling safer there, but they were catching the wind and waves almost broadside and they were getting turbulence from waves breaking onshore and echoing back. The roiling, confused water was like being in a drunken boat, unsteady, unsure of where it’s going, unlikely to stay upright.
“They’re going to capsize!” Annette yelled.
Pender nodded his agreement again. It was just a question of when and where.
The white canoe made its way to the tip of the landmass, catching even harsher wind and wave conditions as they entered the open water of Pickerel Lake. Both paddlers were digging on the left side of the boat to keep the vessel upright, and even the bow paddler had picked up the tempo. At the tip of the landmass, they had a choice to make. They could shoot over a reef to the lee side of an island, which would protect them from the waves while they changed their course to east-northeast—that’s what Pender would have done—or they could paddle across the windward tip of the island with the wind and waves hitting them at a right angle and execute a hard left turn to the east when they cleared the island. The suicide option, Pender thought.
They chose the suicide option. As they came past the island, the khaki princess was nearly blown over from the force of the wind. Her paddle flew into the air, and she scrabbled wildly for something to grab.
“Go!” screamed Annette. And Pender dug as if he was in a race for his life.
They were a hundred yards from the canoeists and they covered the water with amazing speed, but it was still like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The white canoe floundered out of control. The stern paddler stopped paddling and tried to calm his spouse. She was screaming, her face upright, her hands clinging to the gunnels of the canoe, her body frozen in terror. The current seized the white canoe and rammed it sideways into open water.
The man tried to crawl across the packs to reach his wife, raising the boat’s center of gravity into the danger zone. Wind and current rocked the canoe far beyond its point of initial stability, then beyond its secondary stability. The man fell into the water as the canoe lurched, then rolled over, the woman still clinging to the gunnels, wailing.
Annette thought the woman might drown just like that, too terrified to let go, too disoriented to find her way to the surface. She and her husband would both be dealing with the shock of a sudden immersion in icy-cold water, a shock that leaves you unable to breathe for several seconds. You think you’re going to die—and if you panic, you probably will.
In the minutes it took for Annette and Pender to reach them, the man surfaced, looked about frantically for his wife, gasped for air, and dove back under. The man surfaced again, ten feet behind the drifting boat, not sure where to look for his wife. Annette steered their canoe to his side, motioned for him to grab the towline, and paddled to the overturned canoe. They pulled alongside, and Pender reached down with one hand to follow the gunnel. He stopped about halfway to the bow, pointed down, and screamed to Annette, “She’s underneath. In the air pocket.”
Annette nodded her understanding and fought to control their canoe.
The husband caught enough of the exchange to understand his wife was under the boat. He let go of the towline and swam in slogging strokes to the capsized canoe. When he was abreast of Pender, he dived again. Pender could feel the capsized hull roll and shimmy. The woman was resisting her husband’s attempts to pull her to safety. The man surfaced again, took a deep breath, dived again. Pender stripped off his flotation vest and looked to Annette, his face questioning.
She knew what he was asking and shook her head no. It was too dangerous. They were in rough seas and hypothermic weather conditions, and they were going to need two able-bodied paddlers to make it out of here.
The man surfaced again, took a breath, then another, dived weakly into the chill. Pender knew the man wasn’t going to make it, knew he was going to die trying to save his horrible wife. Pender looked back to Annette apologetically, then rolled over the side of the canoe. The shock of the cold water drove the air from his lungs and made his vision flutter like he was going to pass out. He forced himself to remain calm, waiting for the shock to pass. When he could make his chest work again, he took a lungful of air and dove.
Under the boat, the woman clung to a thwart, her neck arched so her nose was against the hull of the canoe, sucking trapped air. Her husband was limp behind her, floating in suspension, his arms moving weakly, a man about to die. Pender grabbed the man’s shirt, pulled him clear of the boat and pushed him toward Annette. Then he grabbed the woman’s nearest hand and wrenched it from the thwart with all his anger and contempt. She thrashed in panic. He held her free hand away from anything it could grab and grasped her other hand, tugging, tugging again, lacking the leverage to break her death grip. He wanted to leave her there to die, but it wasn’t in him. He kicked his feet up above his head, walked them up the hull of the canoe until he was upside down, and then pushed up with all his might. The canoe and the woman’s hand separated in a single violent movement. Pender shot into the depths headfirst, disoriented, not sure which way was up. A wave of panic engulfed him. His lungs were exploding. He choked down the panic and waited for his body to float. He thought this might be how he was going to die, here and now. Thought this was not how he wanted to die, so dark and cold. So dehumanizing.
He started to float, got himself oriented, head up, feet down, kicked up toward the surface, lunged for the air. Couldn’t hold his breath. He inhaled a moment before breaking the surface, getting more water than air into his tortured lungs. Coughed and gasped madly, opposing actions, one reflex to get water out of his lungs, the other to bring air in. Hacked and gasped repeatedly, sank into the water, kicked up, hacked and gasped. Felt light-headed. He sighted Annette struggling to keep the canoe perpendicular to the waves and keep the khaki princess from pulling the boat over as she clutched at the gunnel. The woman’s husband was a few yards from the boat, floating on his back, his arms flopping weakly in an attempt to reach the canoe. Alive after all, Pender thought.
Pender willed himself to swim to the canoe. He held the gunnel for a moment, coughing and breathing until he had himself under control. Then he pulled the husband to the canoe, asked if he could hold the gunnel for a minute. The man looked at him with unfocused eyes but nodded yes. Pender went to the stern and reeled in the solo canoes. He positioned the first one by the woman, holding it with one hand and extending the other to her.
“Come on!” he yelled. The effort made him cough. He gestured for her to get in the solo canoe. She wouldn’t let go of the tandem.
Chaos could stand it no longer. He dived into the water, splashing Pender and the woman. Pender saw it, figured Chaos was going to die out there and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. He wanted to hit the khaki woman as hard as he could just for putting everyone’s life at risk and for being an asshole to boot, but that was just a panic reaction and he swallowed it. He grabbed her nearest hand and pried her fingers from the gunnel, transferred the hand to the gunnel of the solo boat.
“Other hand!” he ordered. But the woman’s eyes stared blankly to the heavens, and her knuckles turned white, one hand frozen to one canoe, the other, to the second canoe.
“Motherfucker!” Pender swore. Another coughing fit followed. He reached for the other hand, pried it free, and guided it to the solo boat. She gripped it like a vice, body rigid.
Pender tried to push her up and over the gunnel, into the boat, but she resisted and he could hardly budge her. “Come on, lady!” he yelled, barely able to finish the sentence before the coughing started. She glanced at him for a moment, then heavenward again. “Come on, pull up!”
She gave a tentative tug on the gunnel, hardly rising in the water. Pathetic. But at least she wasn’t resisting. Her husband saw what Pender was trying to do, swung weakly to her side and spoke directly into her ear. He nodded to Pender. They both braced with one hand on the gunnel, the other on her butt and pushed her up. She balanced precariously on the gunnel, half in, half out, the canoe rolling radically on its side, inches from capsizing. Pender summoned one final surge of energy and pushed again. It worked. She tumbled into the canoe. She screamed in pain as her body came to rest awkwardly, her feet and legs atop the pack in the forward section of the canoe, her head and shoulders thumping into the seat and the thwart just behind it.
Pender kicked himself higher in the water to look over the gunnel. She was struggling weakly and moving her mouth, not serious about changing her situation. He didn’t have the strength to fight her anymore. She’d make it or she wouldn’t.
The khaki woman’s husband was done, so weak he lost his grip on the canoe and drifted away, thrashing for a moment, finally getting onto his back, floating, waiting for death. Pender and Annette exchanged grimaces, knowing they were deep in the danger zone. He paused beside her, yelling, “If that bitch manages to capsize the boat, cut it loose and don’t look back.”
Annette stared at him. He was right, of course. There was no saving her if the boat went over. If she tried to tow a capsized boat, her own canoe would capsize. Still, could she just paddle away and let someone drown?
Pender slogged to the husband, grabbed his collar, pulled him back to the tandem canoe. He didn’t think about it, just focused on doing what had to be done. He flailed until they were alongside Annette. Chaos bobbed happily at his side, enjoying the swim.
Annette struggled to keep the boat aligned to the waves and in front of the towed boats as Pender pushed the man onto the side of the canoe, then, somehow over the gunnel into the boat, Annette bracing desperately to keep the canoe from rolling over. When the man tumbled into the canoe, Pender used the last of his strength to try to center the man’s weight, but he was pinned between a pack and the side of the boat and Pender couldn’t budge him. The canoe listed badly to the heavy side, staying up only because of Annette’s powerful bracing strokes.
Pender didn’t think there was any way to get in the canoe himself. He would have to get to the other side of the canoe and then pull himself in. It seemed as impossible as running a marathon. He let go of the canoe and tried to swim. He sank, his arms unable to respond. He struggled to the surface, put a hand on the gunnel, and looked at Annette, his face apologizing for leaving her like this. He started to let go again, get it over with.
“Try!” Annette screamed at him. It was like she could read his mind. He could see the desperation in her face, and he knew that she loved him and it would be hard for her. He’d give it one last shot.
Slowly, Pender pulled himself hand over hand along the gunnel to the bow, kicking just enough to keep from pulling the canoe over. When he got to the bow, he swung quickly to the other side of the canoe and worked his way to the seat. He looked back at Annette. She nodded, understanding he was going to pull himself up and in. Or try. She counted silently to three, forming the words for the numbers with exaggerated lip movements so he could see the count. On three, she braced hard on the left, and he pulled and kicked himself as high in the air as he could and pulled the boat under himself, landing his upper body on the pack behind the bow seat.
As Pender wriggled the rest of the way on board, the canoe’s center of gravity shifted again, and Annette braced to keep them upright. Pender struggled to center the khaki man’s weight, finally throwing a pack overboard to make space, his mind registering a sad farewell to the last of their food and the gear that had served him faithfully and well for many years.
The canoe was still badly out of balance. Pender crawled to the second pack, heaved it over the side, and then tried to center the khaki man, a limp, helpless form huddled against one side of the canoe, his feet and legs hanging on the gunnel. Pender moved him into the middle of the canoe and pushed him several feet toward Annette. He crawled back to the bow, looking around for Chaos, hoping to pull the dog in before he got in the confined space of the bow seat, where it would be too dangerous to deal with a sixty-pound dog. The dog was swimming gaily in a wide arc around the boat, a hundred feet away, oblivious to the crisis and to the fact that they were a good kilometer from any kind of land.
Tears streamed down Annette’s face. “Paddle!” she screamed. Pender nodded. She couldn’t hold their position anymore. They had to paddle or die. They would have to let Chaos fend for himself. It was a miracle she had kept them upright this long. It had been a bad trade, the surly yuppies for a great dog.
Pender tottered into the bow seat, his body not working right, every movement stiff and slow. He picked up his paddle. His hands cramped. He fought the pain, coughed, flexed his hands, made himself grip and stroke. His teeth chattered, his back ached, his arms felt like lead weights hanging from his old wrinkled body. His vision was wavy and narrowing, the edges of his sight turning to black curtains. His body was shutting down. In a minute, Annette was going to be on her own. Motherfucker, Pender swore to himself. All for the sake of two worthless, self-centered yuppie motherfuckers who should have been shot. Pender paddled. He would go until he passed out. That was the best he could do for Annette. He stroked once, twice, a third time. Saw something at the edge of his tunnel vision, turned, saw Chaos swimming alongside like a big yellow otter, a grin on his face, a good-faith expression that his canoe buddy would bring him aboard. Pender stopped paddling, reached over the side, grabbed the nape of Chaos’s neck. His hand cramped but he squeezed anyway, pulled as hard as he could, keeping his weight centered on the seat.
It was a horrible effort, weak as a baby. He barely got Chaos’s head to lap level and the dog’s weight was pulling him back into the lake. Pender was powerless to prevent it, and he knew his next effort would be even less. Motherfucker.
But Chaos wanted back on board. His front paws clawed at Pender’s thigh, and he paddled with his rear feet and scratched and scrambled with his front ones until he sat on Pender’s lap. It would have been a hilarious moment if the situation weren’t so dire, the big yellow dog sitting on the lap of the bow paddler in the middle of a roiling sea, people fighting for their lives. But Pender didn’t get the humor of it at all, just the menace of an imminent capsize.
He leaned to one side, kept his butt centered on the seat, and threw Chaos backward on the other side. The dog flew ass-first onto the feet and legs of the khaki man, who was oblivious. Chaos scrambled to his feet, looked around, saw Annette swearing at him, shook water from his coat, and lay down between the yuppie man’s calves.
Pender could hardly lift his paddle, but his vision was wider. The struggle had gotten his heart pumping. The sense of cold came back. His teeth chattered and he figured his body would lock up pretty soon, but he thought maybe he could stay conscious long enough to get them to Pickerel River, the narrow waterway that wound through the bog separating Pickerel from French Lake. After that, it would be okay if he died. Annette could make the last few kilometers on her own.
He hoped she got home safely.