It was mid-afternoon when he felt the current change, tugging at the canoe. It was as though the reef was pulling him towards it.
He was far beyond anywhere he’d paddled before. The uncles hadn’t said what winds and currents they’d faced when they’d paddled to the camp on the giant-headland-near-the-sky. It was best to show a boy how to do a new thing, not tell him.
He should have waited till tomorrow, tried to persuade one of the older, more experienced men to come with him. Two canoes and four men, perhaps, or even three canoes. Three canoes were safest. Yet here he was, one boy and one canoe out on the broad expanse of the sea, alone …
Except for a rubbish dog. He glanced back at it.
The rubbish dog lay on her side. She had been scratching against the edge of the canoe, but she stopped moving as soon as he looked around.
She must be thirsty, he thought. He’d forgotten she’d need water, here in the glare of the sun. A dead dog wasn’t as useful as a live one. Sharks liked their prey fresh. But there was no time now to give her water. He needed to keep the canoe from the reef, or they’d both be dead.
He turned the canoe out towards the open sea, not directly opposing the rip but at an angle to it, and began to paddle as strongly as he could.
His arms ached as he fought the current. At last the drag on the canoe lessened. He relaxed, undid one of the water bladders, then took a deep drink.
The water cleared his head. He crawled over to the rubbish dog, then dripped a little water into his hand and held it out to her.
The cords around her muzzle wouldn’t let her open her mouth wide enough to bite him, but were now loose enough for her to put out her tongue a little. She lapped, feebly at first, and then more eagerly.
He filled his hand again, then tied the bladder up, instinctively cautious. He knew she wanted more. He wanted more water too. But they were far from land. So far away that the trees looked as small as leaf ants.
It scared him a little. He had never been so far out to sea before. Canoes were made for fishing in the lagoon, or short voyages around a cape, not for facing the vast sea. He’d imagined creeping around the beaches till he found the headland camp, not drifting alone in the vast blue like this.
He forced the fear away and scanned the waves between him and the shore, trying to see if there was a calm area that looked like a break in the reef.
There had to be one soon!
But he hadn’t even been paddling for half a day yet. Maybe there’d be a break soon …
Or maybe there wouldn’t. Maybe you had to paddle a whole day in this direction, just to find a place where you could safely take a canoe in to shore. And he’d set out when the daylight was already half over. He’d be out here in the roughness and vastness of the open sea at night, alone.
He twirled the paddle slowly from one side to the other, so the canoe stayed pretty much in one place while he considered. If he turned back now he’d be back at his own camp with enough light to find it, especially with the big fire for songs and storytelling after the feast. You could see a glow like that from a long way away.
Or he could keep going and hope that he’d find a place to go ashore soon, even if he hadn’t reached the giant-headland-near-the-sky.
But reefs could be tricky, with outcrops here or there, waves and rips and sandbanks. He’d have to work out the best way through, keeping a sharp eye out for the unexpected, whether that was a rogue wave or a cruising shark.
And he was tired. Up in the first grey light for the pig hunt; carrying the sow back to camp; paddling for so long.
He scanned the coast again, looking ahead and then looking behind him, trying to make up his mind whether to keep going, or head back.
And then he stared. Billows of grey pushed up from the eastern horizon.
Storm! The worst storms came from the east: the wild winds that tore up forests, when all you could do was huddle together in a cave till the fury of the storm was gone. But it wasn’t the Thunder Season yet, though that was coming next. It wasn’t even the Rain Season, with its sudden downpours, when the sky turned to solid water and then, just as suddenly, sunlight returned.
Sometimes the seasons came early, but the aunties had a pretty good idea when that would happen. The trees told them by the way they flowered or fruited. The aunties hadn’t said anything about an early Wet this year.
So this was just a storm. A little storm.
Probably.
But any storm would be bad out here in the rough water, in a shallow canoe. He had to get to safety. Fast.
He had no choice now. He had to turn back and get near the camp, into the seas he was familiar with, before the storm hit.
He manoeuvred the canoe around. He had only tried to paddle half a dozen strokes before he realised.
The current was pushing him away from the camp. He hadn’t noticed because he’d been trying to go the same way. It was going to take him twice the time, twice the energy, to get back home.
The grey clouds filled all the low horizon now. This is going to be a bad one, he thought, just as the first gust of wind hit. It was so hard it almost blew the canoe over on its side.
This morning he’d thought the sea was his to play with. Loa the pig killer was lord of the sea too.
Now the sea and sky were vast, and he was small.
A current tugging west. A wind blowing him west too. He couldn’t paddle against them both.
Behind him the rubbish dog whimpered as though she sensed the danger. He gritted his teeth as he turned the canoe back yet again.
Once again, he had no choice. He had to keep paddling west, into the unknown, hoping that soon he’d see a place to go ashore.
Soon, he prayed. Let me find safety soon.