Blue Ice Dying In The Rain

by Jim Craig

  A cold sweat soaked my armpits as the Zodiac clipped through the gray foggy air. Every now and then a bump sent light spray up and over the bow and into my face. With no land in sight we could have been in the middle of the Pacific rather than just two miles from shore in Prince William Sound. I was clutching a strap holding the bags with all my strength, and my arms and legs were cramped. I tried to relax so I could think, but it was no easy task.

  On the water’s not where I want to be. I belong in the sky. I don’t even like flying over it unless I have to. Then I always try to stay within gliding distance to shore. What if the engine dies? Ignore that thought at your own peril. It’s the curse of aviation.

  At least in an airplane the water's a long way below. This water was two feet from my face. And cold.

  I looked behind me. Charlie was standing in the back of the boat, one hand on the throttle staring into the distance. Water dripped from his coke bottle frames. He'd turned his cap around backwards, and his oily hair fluttered behind him in the breeze. I was careful not to get caught watching him, but I could clearly see the lethal lump under his jacket and the black sheathed knife strapped to his hip.

  This was my captain. I’d put myself in Charlie’s hands. I’d stepped into the boat and handed him all the control. Suddenly I could relate to the passengers that get nervous just before takeoff. At least behind the controls of an airplane I knew it was up to me. The decisions were mine, and I could talk myself through it like in a graveyard in the dark. But not in a boat. I was not in control.

  What was I doing out here? None of us were wearing life jackets. Not even the kid. There were two orange lumps behind me at Charlie's feet, and I thought about what would happen if we tipped over. It would be a mad scramble for the vests and not enough to go around. A chill shook me and I looked back to the front. Tambourine looked even more miserable than I felt. His body was curled into a fetal position and he had Sponge Bob clutched to his chest.

  Greta was hunkered down behind the elevated bow of the boat. Out of the wind she sat with her legs braced against a suitcase and her eyes closed. Disconnected. Removed.

  I tried to reassure myself that the air compartments in the Zodiac would never rupture all at the same time. That would give us something to hang onto if we went over. Little comfort. I wanted to reach back and grab a life vest but decided not to draw Charlie's attention. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to banish the memory of the dog's dark form hitting the water.

  The rhythm of the boat’s motion and the hum of the engine were starting to calm me down and I sat there on the pile of baggage holding onto a strap with each hand. I kept my head down so the wind wouldn’t blow off my hat. There was nothing to see ahead besides fog anyhow.

  We kept moving steadily forward and I was beginning to think we might survive the voyage after all. I let my thoughts drift to the next steps. What would Phil say to me when I finally got hold of him? I’d been out of touch for way too long, and by now he would know his airplane was missing.

  I smirked to myself, bitter but realistic at the thought that he was probably more concerned about the plane than me. He could find a hundred other pilots to take my job in half an hour. But the airplane was worth a lot, and Phil was a businessman first. Alaska can be cold in more ways than one.

  Those thoughts kept me distracted for a while, and I almost forgot about the deadly liquid streaming by beneath us. Almost forgot the discomfort of having no control and no clue. I was almost relaxed right up to the moment the engine stopped.

  The boat bucked like a gut shot soldier. The engine coughed twice and died. The bow dropped flat to the water, and everything got quiet.

  Greta sat up in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  I turned and looked at Charlie. He bent over the fuel tank and then shook his head. “Shit, we’re out of gas.”

  I looked around as the boat bobbed up and down in the middle of nowhere. I halfway expected to see a huge oil tanker emerge out of the fog to bear down on us. Blind in the fog it would plow us under and never know it. But the channel was empty and we were alone. Behind us the wake was slowly dissipating in the calm water.

  Charlie stood up. “Trade places with me,” he snapped.

  The boat wobbled, and I had to force myself to let go of the baggage straps to move to the back. I kept myself crouched to avoid pitching over the side and watched as Charlie stepped to the middle of the boat. He dug under the pile of stuff there and pulled out a pair of oars. Slipping them into the oar rings on top of the gunwales, he settled into position facing the stern and began to row. Then, thinking about it, he stopped, leaned toward Greta with an apologetic look and reached toward her.

  “It’s only another mile, babe. Won’t take long.”

  She jerked her shoulder away from his touch with a glare of disgust and turned her back. Charlie’s head dropped for a second. He stared at his hands then looked up at her again, but she was far away. Then he poked at Tambourine instead. The boy’s body flinched and curled tighter into its fetal tuck.

  Letting out a sigh he picked up the oars again and with a strong pull with his right arm turned the boat for Chenega. I peered into the fog in front of us trying to spot the shoreline in the distance. Since the engine quit and Charlie and I had moved around, the boat had turned. I was completely disoriented. For all I knew we could have been pointed toward China. Then I looked behind us and noticed a faint path in the silty water left from the wake we’d made earlier.

  “There’s usually a little current moving through here that should help us,” Charlie said. “It comes off the gulf and pushes to the north.”

  He settled into a rhythm pulling and lifting the oars with steady effort. The boat began to move again. I sat on the back corner resting one hand on the cooling motor beside me. My other hand clutched a rubber hand hold. A little too tight probably but I was taking no chances. It was slow but we were making progress. I was thankful there was no wind.

  Charlie was strong and handled the oars with ease. Every pull moved us through the water a little further. He looked over his shoulder now and then maintaining a straight track across the channel. I felt myself starting to trust him.

  Minutes went by in a silence broken only by the groan of the oars and small splashes as they worked the water. Then he suddenly quit pulling and sat frozen staring over his shoulder.

  “Uh oh,” Charlie grunted. I looked up to follow his gaze to the right.

  Something was moving through the water toward us. Thirty yards away a tall black blade rose from the surface and grew steadily as it cut through the water directly at us. A strong wave preceded it like oncoming surf. Then another appeared just behind and to its left. The second was smaller but over four feet tall in a matter of seconds.

  “Orcas!” Charlie blurted. “Hold on!”

  Just then an explosion of mist erupted from the sea with a guttural bellow. A dorsal fin loomed six feet high above us. A third fin appeared on the right side. They were close now. I slid to the floor of the inflatable and braced myself for the shock of going into the water.

  Charlie hauled on one oar and turned us toward the whales. Then he stood up, yanked one oar out of its lock and with a wild yell swung the wood high over his head and slammed it hard on the surface of the water.

  The three fins were only feet away, but then they sank out of view and passed below the boat. A strong wave hit us and I thought Charlie was going over. He grabbed for a handhold at the last second just avoiding a fall.

  I swiveled my head trying to follow the whales. I gripped the handhold with both hands and waited for the expected push from below. I was sure when they rose again we'd be tipped over into the ocean. But it didn’t happen. I could feel their enormous bulks sliding underneath us just inches away like buses cruising past pedestrians standing on a city curb.

  Then the enormous fin rose again ten feet behind us and another roar of mist erupted from the sea. Water splattered us like a sudden rain squall. The stench of rotted fi
sh gagged me.

  Charlie sat back down and threw his head back in maniacal laughter. “Whoo hoo!!” he hollered. “How about that? You guys ever feel like fish food before? Holy shit!”

  My mouth fell open gasping for air. After a moment I crawled to my knees and took my seat again on the corner of the boat. I swung around to see if they were coming back for another pass. My hands were killing me, cramped from holding on so tight.

  Charlie turned around to look me over. He was grinning ear to ear and his eyes were wild. “I don’t think they even knew we were here,” he laughed. “That was close.”

  I saw no humor in the situation. I think Charlie was laughing out of relief. When he was standing up with the oar in his hand I’d flashed on visions of Ahab, Gregory Peck and Patrick Stewart all rolled into one.

  “Can-can we get moving again?” I knew my voice sounded small.

  Charlie laughed and settled into his rowing position again. I noticed Tambourine was standing up and had moved to the right side of the boat. He was looking past me watching the killer whales moving swiftly away, their dorsal fins rising and falling. Our eyes met for just an instant then he went back to watching the whales until they were out of sight. I studied him but his face never changed expression. If you could call it an expression. It was more like a coma. His mouth never moved, and his eyes were fixed and steady. Like a child sleeping with his eyes open.

  As I watched, his head cocked slightly and his stare moved upward. Then I heard the sound too. The faint sound of an engine growing steadily louder. I turned and looked into the distance. The whales were gone, and the fog hung less than twenty feet above the water. There were no boats nearby, but there was no mistaking the sound.

  It was coming fast and straight at us. It was an airplane. Low and blurry and barely visible in the fog, it’s wheels couldn’t have been more than five feet off the surface. It looked familiar. And sounded familiar too.

  Charlie turned and his eyes widened when he saw the propeller headed our way. He ducked. I ducked too but I couldn’t help grinning as the red and white plane roared over us. The prop blast almost blew my hat off, but I was holding onto it with both hands.

  The pilot must have seen us at the last second. The plane pulled up abruptly and lifted into the murk. It almost disappeared in the clouds before dropping back down again just off the surface. I watched and wondered if the big tundra tires were going to touch the water. My grin grew wider. Only one plane around here sounded like that. And I only knew one bastard crazy enough to fly two feet off the water like that. It was Willie.

  Charlie hauled himself back into position to start rowing again. We watched as the airplane banked sharply and circled us. Its left wing was dangerously close to the water. If it touched the plane would cartwheel into the drink.

  Willie circled closer and I saw him slide his side window open. He was close enough to see his ruddy round face and white mustache. His airplane fit his body like a glove. I knew that from the many hours in his back seat admiring the natural way he flew.

  Passing by us just fifty feet away he waved his arm out the window. Somebody was in the seat behind him, but I didn’t recognize him. All I could make out was a baseball cap and headphones. I waved back and pointed with both arms toward the dark edge of the shore line of Evans Island and Chenega Bay which I was just able to see under the gray cover still blanketing the whole area.

  Charlie saw me wave. “You know that guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s my friend, Willie. From Seward. He must be looking for me.”

  Greta’s voice piped up. “How come he can fly and you can’t?”

  The shrill edge in her tone took me by surprise. It was that voice from the previous night. The one at the top of the stairs that had denied knowing about the troopers. I looked at her but then remembered that Charlie was right there watching. I got a chill and had to shake it off before I answered.

  “My company has to fly by the rules. Willie makes up his own.”

  “Maybe we should be flying with him,” she said with a sniff.

  I didn’t say anything, but I felt my teeth clench and my face getting hot. I thought of a thousand things to say but decided against them all. Then I felt a rush of relief as I realized Willie and his SuperCub were my way out of this nightmare. I started to grin again. With all his quirks and crotchety moods I never thought I’d look to Willie as my ticket back to sanity. But there he was. Just when I needed him. The cavalry to the rescue.

  Willie was like a harrier hawk hugging the trees and ridgelines around Seward. Sort of a local hero he showed me how to fly out and land on the beaches nearby to visit with surprised fishermen. Willie was everything people think about the classic Alaskan bush pilot. Rough around the edges but so skilled with an airplane, you just had to stop and watch in awe.

  Charlie started pulling on the oars again heading for shore. I watched Willie make a final bank turning for Chenega, and I took a deep breath when I saw his wingtip lift from where it seemed to almost skim the surface of the frigid water.

  The white fabric and red stripes on his plane disappeared from view into the fog ahead of us, and the sound of his engine faded until it was gone. I wondered what he could see. In a couple of minutes it was quiet again. The only sound around us then was Charlie splashing the oars in the water and the groan of the rubber around the oarlocks. The shoreline grew closer with his every pull.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN