Runaway Storm

by Dawne Knobbe

  “Come up and hold the cart, Nate,” Eric called as he hopped into the truck bed and grabbed the handle at the stern. “How much you figure this whole thing weighs, kayak and all?” he asked, lifting it easily.

  “Maybe a hundred pounds—give or take.” Nate felt acid rising from his stomach into his throat. He tried to forget that this was his point of no return. He swallowed again.

  Eric and Mike lifted the kayak while Nate moved the cart to the ground. Then the brothers secured the kayak to the cart. Eric double-checked the cords while Mike made sure the two halves of the red boxers were firmly tied to the kayak’s handles.

  “Don’t know if these rags will save your kayak from being run over,” Mike said, without looking Nate in the eyes. He shrugged. “Guess that’s all we can do for you, though.”

  “Thanks,” Nate said. He slapped Mike on the back. “Thanks for everything.”

  Mike met Nate’s gaze at last and shook his hand hard. “Be safe,” he said. To Nate, Mike sounded a lot more grown-up and mature than he himself felt at that moment.

  “I will,” Nate promised. His hand felt weak in Mike’s, but his voice was strong, he hoped.

  Nate waved as Mike and Eric drove off, the rusty truck backfiring once as if to punctuate their departure.

  Nate turned his back on his last way out of this place and focused on the ferry terminal before him.

  Car traffic was light yet steady, but there was little foot traffic that he could see. It was obvious to Nate now that the bike lane was the only way to go; he would never get the kayak up the stairs and into the building where a sign indicated foot passengers should go to purchase tickets. A well-marked path led from the parking lot to the cyclist ticket lane.

  He maneuvered the cart without much difficulty and joined the line, noticing that he wasn’t the only one with unusual cargo. At least half a dozen people had makeshift carriers for everything from camping gear to garden supplies. One man had a suitcase balanced on top of a huge bag of potting soil in a wheelbarrow. Nate knew that many people with summer cottages on the islands traveled as foot passengers to avoid the high fees for cars. At the ticket window, the woman glanced at his kayak with barely a flicker of interest.

  “Destination?” she asked.

  “Galiano Island.”

  “Just you and the kayak?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s your lucky day. The ten twenty-five ferry’s running half an hour late; you can still make it.”

  “Great,” he said. “How much?”

  “Nine for you, four for the kayak. Thirteen altogether.”

  Nate gave her the money and she handed over the ticket.

  “Straight down to your left. Ferry’s the Queen of Nanaimo at berth two. They’ll be loading in about five minutes.”

  A ferry worker directed Nate to the far side of the dock with the cyclists as the incoming ferry unloaded its cars. The man with the wheelbarrow was there too. Most of the people waiting were chattering and making jokes about how the ferry always ran at least half an hour late. Nate couldn’t see why everyone was feeling so calm about it, though.

  “That’s an inventive kayak carrier,” said the man with the wheelbarrow.

  “You look pretty inventive yourself,” Nate replied.

  The man laughed. “I take everything in my trusty wheelbarrow: food, building supplies, even the occasional grandchild.”

  Nate laughed too, imagining supplies piled high and a child perched on top. Friendliness was the island way, and he began to let it relax him. After all, the hard part was almost over. Soon he’d be on the water, under his own power, and it would literally be smooth sailing all the way.

  The dock groaned and the ramp clanked as the last vehicle, a huge corroded cement truck, rattled off. The ferry employee assigned to direct traffic blew a whistle and gestured to Nate’s group to go aboard. As Nate passed through the huge open doors of the Queen of Nanaimo, he marveled at their monstrous size. They were at least two stories high, and inside, the car deck was a massive cavern of activity—like an anthill, he thought, or a beehive. He breathed in the ferry’s smells: a mixture of tar from the dock pilings, salty air, and rust, plus the fumes of gasoline and diesel fuel. It was pleasantly familiar.

  The man blew his whistle again. “Over here,” he said, waving at Nate. “You, with the kayak, over here.”

  Nate pushed his load to the far side of the inner ferry wall and the man helped him lift it onto a wide ledge out of the way of traffic. Then he placed a wooden block behind one of the front wheels of Nate’s cart and another behind one in the rear.

  “You’re all set,” he said, turning to the next vehicle. Cars crept down the ramp, into the belly of the ferry. Knowing the ride was at least an hour, Nate decided to get well out of the way. He sprinted toward the stairs leading to the passenger decks and took them two at a time, feeling light and eager now that he was actually en route. On the deck overlooking the ferry terminal, Nate watched the snaking line of cars disappear into the belly below.

  Eventually, the waiting lanes were emptied and all the cars were loaded. The ferry began to rumble beneath Nate’s feet as the captain brought the engines to life. Nate waited for the huge horn to sound and the puff of smoke to billow out of the stack at the top of the ship. The sound rumbled in his chest and sent a rush of adrenalin firing into his blood. No matter how many times he heard that horn, its sheer magnitude always surprised him.

  The ferry swung out from the dock and, in a single graceful motion, turned toward the mystical-looking emerald islands floating in the sea.

  Nate hopped onto one of the huge bins marked “life jackets” and watched the islands grow larger as the mainland receded. They were crossing the Strait of Georgia, and in less than an hour he would reach his destination: Sturdies Bay on Galiano Island.

  He saw Gossip Island first, just in front of Galiano. The green blur sharpened into individual trees and huge sandstone rocks that lay like sleeping giants half hidden under seaweed blankets. As they entered the channel between Galiano and Mayne islands, the captain sounded the ship’s horn again.

  The loudspeaker crackled, and a recorded voice announced: “We will be arriving at Sturdies Bay on Galiano Island in five minutes’ time. All passengers bound for Sturdies Bay please report to the car deck.”

  Nate joined the jumble of colored T-shirts and laughter and got downstairs in time to see the ferry doors swing inward, revealing the Galiano dock a few yards away. The ferry slowed, reversed with a thunderous groan, then rubbed against the dock, which sent a piercing creak resounding through the car deck. Nate grabbed at the cart to keep his balance.

  Ferry workers fastened the ship to the dock with massive ropes the size of one of Nate’s thighs. As the ramp lurched toward the deck, foot passengers and cyclists surged forward. Nate was waiting for a break in the crowd when a ferry worker picked up the blocks from behind the wheels of his cart. Nate maneuvered the kayak off the ledge and up the ramp. He shaded his eyes as he stepped into the sunlight. At first he tried pushing, but he seemed to have more control when he pulled.

  This early in June, the dock sported its usual fresh, thick coat of white marine paint, but Nate knew that between the heat of the sun and the gnawing salty breeze, it would be back to its chipped state by summer’s end.

  Nothing else seemed changed either. Nate felt it was all familiar, from the dark ocean water he could see through the gaps between the oil-stained planks of the dock to the arbutus trees lining the shore, their smooth tan limbs resembling gracefully posed human arms.

  “Keep moving,” a worker hollered.

  Nate wasn’t sure if the guy was talking to him, but he purposefully pulled the kayak up the dock, keeping pace with the departing crowd. Excitement coursed through him as he stepped off the last plank onto the pitted asphalt road.

  He picked up a few island maps at the unmanned tourist booth and then crossed to the only gas station on the island, which also housed a small store. Carefully p
arking the cart out of harm’s way, Nate walked around to the front and entered the store. His stomach growled as he walked the aisles trying to figure out what he should add to his supplies. He bought a bag of ice, hot dogs, buns, and a jar of peanut butter. He avoided his favorite sour cream and onion potato chips in favor of a package of bacon, a carton of eggs, and an apple. Twenty bucks. Ouch, he thought.

  He had forgotten how much more everything cost on the island. He took his purchases to the kayak. Munching on the apple, Nate retrieved his collapsible bucket and half filled it with ice. He carefully added the carton of eggs, bacon, and hot dogs to the bucket, and topped it with the rest of the ice. He stowed the bucket in the kayak and hoped it wouldn’t tip and spill, although if it did, at least everything else was in dry bags.

  Next he needed to figure out his launch spot. He was annoyed with himself for not noticing the shoreline as the ferry docked. If the tide was in, he could probably launch right off the cart. If the tide was out, he might have to wait for hours. If he was going to be a smart boater, he’d better start watching the weather and the tides.

  Nate slowly made his way toward Whaler Bay. The rutted pavement hampered the cart more than the downhill slope helped. The noonday sun beat down on his bare head, and sweat ran down inside his shirt. He realized he had forgotten to pack a hat and sunscreen. They would have cost a fortune at the island store, but he knew he’d eventually have to buy both. Nate tried to add up how much money he’d spent and figured he had about seventy dollars left. Not enough to keep him fed for long. He’d have to catch a lot of fish.

  Nate reached flat ground and pulled the cart to the side of the road. Luck was with him. The tide was high; the water lapped against the shore no more than ten feet away. No problemo, he thought. He just needed to force his way past a few blackberry brambles and over a couple of rocks, and then he could push the cart right into the water.

  Half an hour later, the cart rested precariously on some rocks on the other side of the bramble. Nate was scratched, but the kayak was not. He pulled off his shoes and socks and stowed them in the kayak, then unfastened the bungee cords and stowed them.

  The front end of the kayak was now out over the water, so Nate decided to wade in and lower her the rest of the way. He rolled up his jeans and took his first step into the cool bay waters. The water felt good because his feet had gotten so sweaty, but it was deeper than he had anticipated, and his pants were soon soaked to the knee, making walking even more awkward. Mud sucked at his bare feet. He picked up the handle at the bow of the kayak and slowly pulled.

  One second he was pulling gently, the next the cart was lurching toward him. He plunged backward into the icy water as the kayak slapped the surface with a loud clap. He reached to steady her, choking down a mouthful of salty water, praying she wouldn’t flip. He’d seen kayaks flip as a result of less of a disturbance than he’d just created, and he wasn’t entirely confident about how well he had packed and stowed away his goods

  But the kayak steadied herself as the waves died into ripples.

  Nate spat, trying to get rid of the salty taste. It could have been worse, he thought, looking at the half-submerged cart. Better the cart under water than his supplies. Still, he made a half-hearted attempt to steady it on the rocks beyond the high-tide mark and shoved it partway into a thicket of blackberry brambles.

  When he came back this way—if he came back this way—he’d deal with the cart then. Chances were nobody would bother with it before then; probably nobody would even wander down this way and find it. The island had always seemed pretty safe to him.

  Anyway, the kayak was in the water, and she still didn’t have a scratch, and that was what mattered to Nate.

  Eager to be off, Nate pulled out the two halves of his paddle and twisted them together. Then, having slipped on his orange life jacket despite feeling hot and drenched in sweat, Nate stepped up onto a rock and then lowered himself into his beautiful sleek white boat. She rocked gently, but held steady, welcoming him. It felt like a perfect fit. He dipped the paddle into the water on one side, then the other, and the kayak slipped forward as if floating through air. Nate maneuvered the boat in circles to see how she would respond; then he leaned out as far as he could. She held fast, no hint of rolling.

  What shall I call her? Nate wondered. Such a beauty needed some kind of name. A thought came to him from a poem his English teacher had read to the class back in March. Something about a home being ruined and the sad-hearted people’s only comfort were words, words of—what was it? Solace. That was it, and it was perfect. His kayak was his one true comfort at a time when he felt disappointed and alone. She would console him and make him cheerful again.

  As he slid toward the mouth of the bay, Nate forgot he was soaking wet. He forgot he was mad at his parents and at the world. He shut his eyes and tilted his face toward the sun. He listened to the water lap gently against Solace’s hull. This is what he had dreamed about.

  He opened his eyes and slowly dipped his paddle again, propelling himself forward. Nothing else mattered. As he moved out of the bay and turned to follow the curve of the island, everything behind him disappeared. For the first time in too long a time, he felt like he was right where he belonged. He was happy, and he was free.

  7

  Nate paddled past a couple of islets. The high tide covered most of their rocky forms; only their sandstone tops protruded from the water like balding heads. A few stray tufts of drying yellow grass waved in the breeze as seagulls winged past overhead, unclenching their clam-filled claws at just the right moment so the shellfish would hit the rocks below. Shells smashed open, and the clever birds swooped down to feast on the exposed meat.

  The water was slowly pulling back from the shore. An ebbing tide, Nate thought; when the water rose, a flooding tide. He tried to remember what his dad had said about how tides could affect kayaking. He’d have to look it up in his kayak book before he dared to enter Active Pass. It was a long way off on the other side of the island, but that area was legendary for its dangerous tidal whirlpools and continual ferry traffic. Still, with such a sturdy vessel at his command, Nate itched to dip his paddle through the frothy swirls and toss his line out into the famous salmon fishing hole within its depths.

  He had paddled steadily for a couple of hours, stopping briefly only for a quick rest and to watch a seal roll off its sunbathing perch. Seals were such curious creatures, sometimes suddenly popping out of the water to stare at him from no more than a foot away. A mother and her pup had followed his kayak for almost an hour, surfacing up ahead of him every so often, then falling back to swim beside him. Many of the seals were dark brown, but these two were almost white, with tiny grayish-black spots all over their slick fur coats.

  “You look like a couple of mutated Dalmatians,” Nate called, laughing. Their intelligent brown eyes blinked at him before the two seals slipped below. They were such peaceful companions, he thought, hoping they would stay with him for the rest of the day. But his progress might have been too slow, for they surfaced farther and farther away.

  Nate imagined the seals looking for a few choice salmon to snack on. With that thought, his own stomach rumbled and he glanced at his watch. It was almost five o’clock; no wonder he was hungry. All he’d eaten since “breakfast” was that apple.

  He scanned the shoreline. Earlier he had passed several cabins, but now there were only trees extending along the rocky shore. He balanced his paddle in front of him and pulled one of the island brochures out of his jeans back pocket. It was damp, but readable. The map showed only one road near the shore on this side of the island, and it dead-ended about a third of the way up. He must have passed that already, which would make this the perfect place to camp undisturbed.

  The brochure said Galiano Island was seventeen miles long. Whaler Bay, where he had launched Solace, was close to the tip of one end. Following the line that marked the coastal road with his finger, he guessed that if he was beyond the road, he must have pa
ddled at least five miles.

  His first destination was a park at Dionisio Point, at the opposite end of Galiano from where he had started. Nate had been there a couple of years earlier with his dad, but they hadn’t paddled up this side of the island. Instead, they had driven more than halfway up on the other side and then launched their kayaks at Retreat Cove.

  Nate guessed Dionisio Point was twelve or so miles farther down the beach. He could probably make it in a day if he pushed, but he wasn’t in any hurry. Besides, he thought, stretching his shoulders and twisting his aching neck, he needed a few days to ease back into the paddling routine; he wasn’t exactly in top physical shape.

  Refolding the brochure, he stuck it in his pocket. He’d take a closer look at it and the other brochures later, maybe map a loose course of where to go after Dionisio Point. He was his own boss now. There was no one else telling him where to go, what to do, or when to do it.

  Nate turned Solace toward shore, and a lazy breeze lifted his curly hair. He licked his salty lips and smiled. Wherever the wind blows me. That’s where I’ll go.

  The shoreline was a jumble of overlapping sandstone slabs, and Nate didn’t want to scrape the bottom of his kayak by pulling her across them. Still, somehow he would have to move Solace up above the high tide line so she wouldn’t float away in the middle of the night.

  Maneuvering alongside a small group of the slabs, Nate carefully slithered out of the kayak into the water and secured the bowline around a jutting edge of sandstone. Lying across her on his belly, he carefully opened the hatches and offloaded his supplies onto the slabs. When the kayak was empty save for a few smaller things tucked in the bow and stern, Nate carried load after load across the rocks and up to dry land.

  He found a flat area surrounded by fir trees and set up camp. First, he set up his tent and rolled out his sleeping bag inside. Next, he gathered a few small stones and formed a fire ring. There were lots of dry sticks lying around, so he collected a couple of armfuls and stacked them beside the ring.