The Line Tender
Page 21
“Ray thinks I am hogging the headphones.”
Bom, bom, bom.
“The shark is named Fred. You’re a shark.”
Bom, bom, bom.
Ray tapped me on the shoulder, and I opened my eyes. He raised his eyebrows, pointed to the headphones, and then he poked himself in the sternum. I didn’t want to give them away, so I held up a finger, as if to tell him I needed one more minute. Bom, bom, bom.
I didn’t know whether Fred the Shark was ten meters below us, or one hundred meters to the west. There was an art to interpreting the pings that even Ray and Robin hadn’t learned yet. No one on the boat knew how far away or how deep he was. I leaned over, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fins coming to the surface. In the North Atlantic, the waves were dark and opaque, but I still looked over the side of the boat, trying to see deeper.
Ray looked at me, and I made a puzzled expression.
“Something happened,” I said. “Everything just changed.”
I handed him the headphones. I watched him listen until his eyes grew wide.
“I think we’re listening to two different pings,” he yelled. “I think it’s Helen.”
I looked at him, confused.
“The first shark,” he said. “We named her Helen.”
“She’s here?” I asked.
Ray nodded.
“Robin, come listen to this,” Ray called, but she didn’t hear him. She was talking to Sookie at the edge of the catwalk. “Here. Hold these.”
Ray handed me the headphones and moved toward the prow of the boat, steadying himself against the corner of the wheelhouse. I tried to separate the two pings. The rhythm had shifted. The rests were shorter between pings and there was a new sound, Bom, bom, bee, bee, bom, bee. It was dissonant and chaotic. I cupped my hands over the tan plastic ear muffs and said out loud, “It’s Mom.”
I had read somewhere that white sharks were solitary creatures, crossing great distances alone, but that sometimes they swam in pairs. No one knows why they do this. Somewhere near the boat, Helen and Fred were swimming together. I listened to the strange music they made, like it was an old, favorite song. I imagined them cruising around Monomoy Island, talking to each other. Maybe Helen had been pinging for a long time, waiting for one of us to join her below the waves.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am deeply grateful to my agent, Michael Bourret, for believing in the story and guiding me through the process of publishing this book.
Many thanks to the team at Dutton and Penguin Young Readers Group, especially Julie Strauss-Gabel, Melissa Faulner, Natalie Vielkind, Jessica Jenkins, Lindsey Andrews, Rosanne Lauer, Anne Heausler, and my editor, Andrew Karre, for knowing how to balance the story, reducing noise in some places and raising the volume in others. To Xingye Jin, who created a powerful cover and captured the essential lines of Lucy’s drawings. Thank you all for bringing this book to life.
I’d like to thank the experts, for sharing their deep knowledge and being gracious with their time: Greg Skomal, Brad Chase, Lieutenant William Freeman, Captain Conrad Prosniewski, Al Drinkwater, Mike Birarelli, Tom Bartlett, Sooky Sawyer, Tracey Steig, and Michael Kinzer. Any inaccuracies are my fault, not theirs. There were several people whose work inspired and moved me along like a current throughout the writing process: Eugenie Clark, Alexa Canady, Joy Reidenberg, Jane Goodall, Jacques Cousteau, Rachel Carson, Susan Allen, and Ashanti Johnson.
I can’t imagine writing a book without Supergroup: Jana Hiller, Kaethe Schwehn, Sarah Hanley, Sean Beggs, Coralee Grebe, Brian Rubin, Kristi Belcamino, and Christy Kujawa, who read this story again and again, providing honest feedback, humor, and support. And thank you to the Loft for connecting me with these people, and for providing classes and a community for writers in the Twin Cities.
Many thanks to my writing mentors, especially Charlotte Gordon, who helped me find my voice and loaded my high school writing class into a van to see Adrienne Rich read her poems. And Mary Gardner, who told me she’d shoot herself if this book didn’t get published (as she kindly reminded me that the manuscript wasn’t going to query itself). Also, Rob Farnsworth and Gary Lawless for suggesting that I make something out of that poem about the scuba diver. And David Housewright for insisting that fiction writers do their research.
Cincy Schradle, Kate Owens, Paul Legler, Lisa Li, and Christine Brunkhorst were the early readers who encouraged me to keep going.
I’m grateful for the support of my dear friends, Cecily Cullinan, Zoe Adler, and Kate O’Brien; and my beloved colleagues on the proposal team: Eric Chalmers, John Nelson, Jennifer Winsten, Karla Snellings, Amy Johnson, Caitlin Stollenwerk, Julie Jenkins, (and Alicia DeGross).
I owe a great deal of thanks to my family. Barbara and Dan Schultz, and Marilyn Vinokour, took care of my children (on winter nights in Minnesota), so I could make it to writing class or Supergroup. They also introduced me to the Loft. My aunt, Pamela Parrella, is one of the first writers I ever knew and I’ve been grateful to share updates with her throughout the years. Many thanks to my cousin, Alex Penfold, for her advice.
I owe just about everything to my parents. My mother remembers summer vacations at the Cape and my father shared the waters with sharks in his tiny boat when he was Lucy’s age. They passed on their love of the ocean to me, which is the heart of this story, but they inspire me in countless other ways. I’d also like to thank Cynthia Allen, one of the best teachers on earth, and Dave Deinstadt, my research partner.
Many thanks to my boys, Sam and Leo, who helped me write to the end of the story, so that we could keep reading the manuscript together. They make everything better.
I’m deeply grateful to Jon, for our years in Rockport (and everywhere else) and for always being my partner in crime. He helped me believe I was a writer, even when I had nothing to show for it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kate Allen grew up in Massachusetts and lives in Minneapolis, MN, with her family. The Line Tender is her first novel.
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