By the end of the day, he had a plan.
He would need money. He found two bills, a ten and a twenty, in the kitchen drawer where Kate and Matthew kept their letters and bills. He didn’t like to take it, but he had no choice; they should have left him alone in Ireland and then he wouldn’t need to steal their money. He had no idea how much thirty dollars was worth, but it would do; he would not need much, just bus fare and chocolate money, enough to keep him going for a couple of days until he got back home. He folded the bills and stuffed them into his uncle’s coat, not the stained carcoat, but a warm-looking, padded ski jacket hanging beside it in the closet.
Next, he rooted through the glove compartment of his uncle’s truck and found a map of British Columbia which he stuffed into his pocket. He studied the map in bed that night. British Columbia was very big. He checked the scale of the map and the area of the westernmost Canadian province and did some rough calculations in his head. The whole country of Ireland would fit into British Columbia ten or eleven times! Imagine that! Ten Irelands! He shook his head in wonderment. He located Otter Harbour. The nearest town was called Sechelt. He located the Vancouver airport on Sea Island. He reckoned he should be able to make it by tomorrow night.
He left before dawn after a good night’s sleep, before anyone was up. He tiptoed downstairs and helped himself to a couple of large hunks of his aunt’s soda bread which he stuffed into plastic bags. Then he slid the closet door open quietly, pushed the bread into the pockets of Matthew’s jacket, the one with the thirty dollars in the pocket, and slipped the jacket on. A last-minute decision made him grab a green wool toque from the shelf and pull it on over his head. He listened for anyone moving upstairs. All was quiet. He crept out the door. He took nothing else except the map. It was a fine morning with no wind.
The jacket came down past his knees, but he had chosen it deliberately, knowing it would be warm. His vague plan was to get into the airport baggage room and somehow smuggle aboard the London flight in a trunk or large bag. But first he had to get to the airport. He did not know where he would be sleeping tonight and the jacket would be as good as a sleeping bag.
Besides, he’d need to wear something warm in the boat.
He had decided on the boat yesterday for several reasons. A boat was easy to start and easy to steal; the ones with outboard motors required no ignition key; all he had to do was pull the starter and he was on his way. Second, a boat would take him directly to the airport on Sea Island. Third, they would probably be looking for him on the road and at the ferry terminals; they would not be looking for a boat. He hoped. Unless of course, the boat owner discovered his boat missing and reported the theft to the police.
He walked along the beach; the road would be deserted at this hour, but he did not want to take the chance that someone would see him.
Because of the forested hills to the east, dawn was slow to come to Otter Harbour, but by the time he reached the boat dock, the sky above the hills was stained pink and orange and he could smell the ocean and the forest. He felt his heart lift with excitement. He was going to make it; he knew it, he could feel it in his bones.
There was nobody at the boat dock. He climbed into the boat he had selected yesterday, a fiberglass runabout with a small canopy that would protect him from easy identification, just in case they were looking for him with binoculars; it would also keep off rain and wind. He had checked the gasoline yesterday and the tank was almost full; he did not know how far it would take him, but if he followed the shoreline, he could always tie up at a dock and get more.
It was the first time he had ever been in a small boat. He did not feel as sure of himself today as he had felt yesterday when he had studied the motor.
He jerked on the starter rope. The 40HP outboard started after a few pulls. He untied the boat and pushed off. He slipped the motor into gear and twisted the throttle to “low” for a few minutes until he had a good direction, then once the dock was far behind, turned it to “full.” The little engine roared, the prow of the boat rose up out of the water, and the dark green sea boiled behind him.
His heart lifted. He was on his way home.
The sky was lighter now, and he could see the cliffs and beaches and the forest behind them quite clearly. He watched an eagle soaring over the trees and the rocks with effortless grace. The sea was calm. God was with him. Maybe the eagle was God watching over him, guiding him home safely. Or that seal out there with its shiny nose and bristle whiskers poking up out of the water, swimming along near the boat. Was it his imagination or did the seal give him a wink? Perhaps we are watched over by the dead, he thought. His ma, his sister Mairead, the da he did not remember, who died when he was only three, maybe they were all watching over him. He gave a sigh of satisfaction and sat back, enjoying the plunging motion of the boat, feeling the spray on his face, letting the powerful little motor do the work.
The sun came up and dissolved the mists from the mountains. He was too warm; he took off his uncle’s jacket and the toque. He studied the map, trying to figure out from the shape of the coastline where he was. The big town he came to would be Sechelt. He kept heading south along the coast, looking for landmarks, checking his map periodically, lying back with the sun warm on his face, watching the other boats carefully. Whenever he came upon one fishing, he angled away from it so he could not be seen clearly.
After a few hours, he unscrewed the cap of the gas tank and checked the level by peering inside. About half a tank left. He figured he should be able to make it across Howe Sound before he had to stop to refuel. Which made him think about how the Holy Terrors used to siphon fuel from cars and trucks so they could make gasoline bombs to throw at the Brits. If only Brendan Fogarty could see him now!
He was now in open water, in the channel between the peninsula and Bowen Island, feeling a little less certain of his seamanship The wind had come up and the water was rougher. It was not cold enough to put on his coat, but he pulled the toque down over his forehead against a windburn. His arms and shoulders ached from holding the rudder, even though he tried to balance the load by switching from one side of the seat to the other.
He checked the gas again; it was very low and he was still a long way from the shore. He had not counted on the wind. He should have stopped sooner. He hoped there was a dock at the island; if there was none, he was done for.
He stared ahead at the island, misty in the distance, willing the motor to keep turning. Where was the eagle? Or the seal?
He was hungry. He ate one of the chunks of soda bread.
After a while, he thought the motor sounded a bit different, as though it were thirsty. He was scared to take off the cap and look into the tank for fear he would find it dry. Keep going for another five minutes, he prayed, that’s all, five minutes.
The boat heaved and rolled in the choppy sea. The motor coughed. He throttled back a bit. He was nearly there. He could see a narrow strip of beach where he could land the boat. He would have to be careful not to damage the motor. He examined its swivel mechanism and figured that he would have to pull the motor back and up out of the water when he could see the sandy bottom under the boat.
He was there! Up with the motor! The bottom of the boat scraped the sandy beach as he leaped out with the prow rope and dragged the boat up higher onto the beach where the tide could not take it back again. It was a falling tide; the boat should be safe there a while.
He sat on the beach, trying to decide what to do next. This could be a deserted island. His map was too small a scale to give any useful information. One thing was certain: the boat that had brought him here was no longer of any use to him. He would have to find another before he could continue his journey. Perhaps it was just as well. If he had put into shore at a dock on the peninsula, he might have been caught. And didn’t bank robbers change cars to confuse the police? He stood up, hooked his thumb under the collar of the coat, slung it over his shoulder and set off along the rocky shore, breathing a silent prayer to those watching over him not to desert him now, to let him soon find another boat.