Runaway Storm

by Dawne Knobbe

  Nate stretched his arms out behind his back and then cracked his knuckles one by one, glancing around at his gear. He needed something to put under Solace so she wouldn’t get scratched. His eyes fell on the tarp that Mike had insisted he pack. Perfect. He carried it to the boat, folded it in half, and then spread it out on top of a flat sandstone slab.

  Nate was sure he could lift the empty kayak, but securing a grip was awkward. In the end, he resigned himself to getting wet again and stepped into the water, which came up to his waist.

  The rocks below the waterline were covered in green sea moss and as slippery as an icy sidewalk. Nate reached down to tear away some of the weeds and nicked two of his fingers on a cluster of sharp barnacles. The salty water seeped into the cuts, stinging so bad that Nate swore under his breath. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and tried to suck out the salt while he looked around for safer footing.

  In the end, Nate managed to wedge his left foot between two rocks and place the right on a half-submerged rock that didn’t seem as slick as the rest. He grabbed the edges of the kayak’s cockpit and awkwardly lifted the boat out of the water. Solace was heavier than he’d expected, but he swung her halfway around and deposited her as gently as he could in the middle of the tarp just before losing his footing and scraping the outside of his left ankle. He bit his lip hard to divert the pain from his bleeding ankle as the salt seeped in. After doing battle against the barnacles and the bloodthirsty rocks, Nate hoped the bulk of the beaches up ahead would be sandy rather than rocky.

  Back atop the sandstone slab, Nate grabbed one end of the tarp and dragged it up the beach and onto dry grass. Satisfied that the boat was above the tide line, he sat, huffing.

  When he could breathe normally again, Nate walked the few steps to his campsite, opened one of the large bottles of water, and gulped down several mouthfuls. Then he set up his kitchen for his first truly independent meal as a free man. He unpacked his canister stove, which consisted of a one-ring burner attached to a long metal tube that led to a canister of white gas. He found an even spot on the ground, set down the stove, and lit it. He dug out his only pot, thinking to boil hot dogs, then pulled out his frying pan instead. No use wasting water, he thought; besides, he liked dogs fried just as well. After retrieving the hot dogs from the “ice bucket,” Nate pulled out his pocketknife and sliced them in half lengthwise. In less than a minute, they were sizzling away in the pan.

  Nate sniffed the air hungrily. Lukewarm would be good enough.

  Nate wolfed down three hot dogs and buns. They were the best he’d ever tasted, even half cooked and without mustard and mayonnaise. Comfortably full, he leaned against his dry bag of clothes, stretched once, and fell fast asleep.

  * * *

  Why was someone always trying to wake him? Nate could hear that darn buzzing again. “Go away, Mike,” he muttered, rolling over and punching his pillow. It wasn’t the soft formable material he was used to, however, and the buzzing sounded like it was inside his head. That didn’t seem right.

  Nate heaved himself up and stared at his pillow in the dark. It took him a few moments to focus on his clothing bag and the buzzing inside it.

  “Shit,” he said, scrambling to unzip the bag and retrieve his cell phone. “Hello,” he barked into the receiver.

  “Nate, is that you?” The line crackled with static.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes. Hi honey, I’m calling from Paris. How are you? Where are you? I tried the house, but there was no answer.”

  “I’m on Galiano.”

  “How’s everything going? How’s your father?”

  “Fine. Everything’s fine. We’re fine. How’s Paris?”

  “Oh, it’s fabulous!” she gushed.

  “Mom, my battery is low.”

  “What? I can barely hear you. I’ll be home in a week. I’ll call you then.”

  “Mom, my battery’s running low, and I only have one spare,” Nate said, hollering into the phone. “I’m going to turn off my phone. Call on my birthday. I’ll turn it on then.”

  “That’s ten days.”

  “It’s not so long.”

  “Okay, honey. I guess your reception’s not so good. You’re breaking up.”

  The phone crackled and fell silent. Nate pushed the End Call button then tossed the cell phone back into his clothing bag. It slid across a shirt, disappearing down the side, only to begin buzzing again.

  “Shit,” Nate said, digging for the phone one more time. He looked at the screen; it was Sam calling. He turned off the phone completely and tossed it back into his bag. Sam could leave a message if he wanted. Nate wasn’t in the mood to hear about babes and beer and beach parties. He lay back, absorbing the silence. There was nothing louder than his own thoughts.

  Nate slept deeply but woke in time to watch the sun climb out of the sea. He yawned and stretched, trying to untwist his muscles, then reached slowly for the frying pan. Man, his back was sore, and his stomach felt raw and empty.

  By the time he had a bellyful of bacon and eggs, the sun was higher in the sky and his muscles had relaxed into a dull ache. Maybe he should pack up, paddle a short way up the coast, make an early camp, and go fishing.

  8

  The calm water reflected the heat of the sun no matter how Nate leaned in his kayak. He adjusted the T-shirt draped over his head, tucked his fishing rod under one arm, and extracted his phone from his pant’s pocket. It was his fourth day out, and still the fish weren’t biting. He wondered what he was doing wrong. He had tried four or five different lures, but nothing seemed to interest the fish. It was as if there weren’t any around.

  He pressed the power button on his phone and the face lit up, followed by a beep signaling messages. He pressed in his code. “You have ten new messages,” the stilted voice said. Shit, Nate thought, someone was trying hard to reach him.

  Sam’s voice echoed out of the phone. “Hey, bud. You make it all the way to the islands? Bet you’re not having as much fun as I am. Surf, sand, and beer aplenty. Catch you later.”

  Nate pressed Delete.

  “Yo, Nate,” Sam’s voice rang through again. “You gone incognito or dropped off the face of the earth altogether?”

  Nate deleted again.

  The next message was filled with static, and it sounded like there was a garbage truck in the background slamming bins around before it cut out. No voice, but it was definitely Sam again.

  “Sky is blue; where are you?” Sam shouted in message number four.

  What the hell was his problem? Nate wondered.

  The next six were a series of hang ups after Sam had hollered a “Yo,” “Hey,” or “Butthead” into the phone. “Stupid idiot’s trying to run my battery down,” Nate muttered as he pressed Return Call.

  Sam didn’t pick up, so Nate left him a message. “I’m here, and I was enjoying the peace and quiet till I got your four messages and six hang ups. Don’t mess with my phone, man. I have nowhere to recharge my batteries!”

  Nate turned off his phone and tucked it back in his pocket and reeled in his fishing line. He was wasting time. There was no point in drifting around trying to catch nonexistent fish. He hadn’t reached Dionisio Point yet, but he knew it wasn’t far. He tightened the joint in his paddle and dug hard into the waves, propelling Solace forward rapidly.

  Sam’s intrusions had brought Nate’s parents back into his thoughts after he’d managed to banish them for three whole days. He stroked harder, trying to turn his thoughts into muscle, and his beautiful kayak responded, sliding swiftly forward.

  By mid-afternoon Nate could make out the crescent-shaped beach that connected a small islet to the island. On both sides of the beach the islet helped to form naturally sheltered harbors where boats could moor, protected from the open sea. As Nate drew closer, he could see no boats anchored in the bay. He paused to watch a boy of about ten or eleven leap from rock to rock in an admirable balancing act. At least Nate thought it was a boy. He could see the kid looking back in
Nate’s direction from under a mop of long brown hair. He leapt down from the rocks and sauntered toward Nate as his kayak scraped gently onto the beach.

  “Need some help?” the kid asked, freckled face breaking into a friendly smile.

  “Sure,” Nate said as he swung his body expertly up and out of the kayak. He unwrapped the T-shirt he’d twisted around his head to protect him from the sun. It hadn’t been effective; his nose was burnt, painful, and peeling.

  “You need sunscreen,” the boy observed.

  “Obviously,” Nate said as he waded into the water and reached for the stern handle on the boat. “If you wanna help, grab the handle at the front there,” he said, pointing at the bow.

  The boy picked up the handle.

  “Ready, set, go,” Nate said, and they lifted the boat in unison. They moved Solace up the beach and set her down on the sand just below a pile of driftwood bleached bony white from the sun.

  “You live around here?” Nate asked the boy.

  “Sort of,” the boy answered, casting a wary glance.

  “Know how high the tide rises?”

  “Why, you staying long?”

  “Maybe,” Nate answered, sitting down to pull off his wet shoes. “Don’t have to be anywhere else in a hurry.”

  The boy’s body relaxed, and he hunkered down on the sand beside Nate. “It depends,” he said. “Sometimes the tide barely changes. Other times it gets so high the driftwood floats away.” He gestured toward the beached logs. “If you’re staying overnight, we should probably move the boat up past the grass line over there. If you’re staying longer, we should take her right up into the trees and hide her.”

  “Why?” Nate asked.

  “The Forest Ranger comes over by boat every couple of days.”

  “So?”

  The boy shrugged. “You’re only allowed to camp here for three days at a time or something. Anyway, we avoid him.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Who’s asking?” the boy said, peering out at him through his stringy hair again. Then, finding something interesting in the sand to kick with his bare feet, he peered down.

  Nate wasn’t fooled. He held out his hand toward the boy.

  “I’m Nate,” he said. “Formerly from Vancouver, recently from New York, and hopefully an island runaway for the rest of the summer.” Nate was surprised at his own candidness, but when the boy looked up with a gleam of camaraderie in his eyes and thrust his hand out to meet Nate’s, he knew he had done the right thing.

  “I’m Joey,” he said, pumping Nate’s hand. “Formerly from Vancouver, recently escaped from foster care, and now the resident pirate king of Galiano.” He let go of Nate’s hand and made a sweeping bow. “Welcome to my island.”

  “Let’s move Solace up into the trees,” Nate said, “and then you can show me your pirate kingdom.”

  “Who’s Solace?”

  “That’s my kayak’s name.”

  “Isn’t that a girl’s name? Why did you give your boat a girl’s name?”

  “Good question. I’ll tell you some other time.”

  They picked the boat up by her handles and moved her along the beach, stopping every twenty feet or so to rest.

  “What’s packed in this thing—rocks?” Joey asked, putting down his end and collapsing onto a driftwood log.

  “Just camping gear. You know, food . . . water . . . tent . . . clothes, that sort of stuff.” Nate had spent the last four days hauling the kayak in and out of the water by himself, so she didn’t seem that heavy to him, especially with someone lifting the other end. He slid down onto the sand using Joey’s log as a backrest. “How old are you?” he asked.

  Joey puffed out his chest, flipped back his hair, and sat up straighter. “Twelve.”

  Nate shaded his eyes and studied the boy’s lean form, freckled face, and bright brown eyes. He looked like a forest sprite or maybe one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. He could be small for his age, but Nate was sure Joey had padded the number by at least a year.

  Nate stretched his arms and began cracking his knuckles. Catching himself, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts.

  “You ready for the last haul?” he asked.

  Joey nodded, and they picked up the kayak again.

  They put Solace down under the cover of two mammoth fir trees and some giant ferns. When Joey was satisfied that she couldn’t be seen from the beach, he plunked himself down beside Nate, who was rooting through his belongings.

  “Got anything to eat?” Joey asked. “I’m starving.”

  Nate pulled out his camp stove, frying pan, and collapsible bucket. He fished the last two hot dogs out of the melted ice water and shook them off.

  “They’re a bit soggy,” he said.

  “Who cares?” Joey said, licking his lips. “I’m so sick of salmon!”

  “You catch a lot of salmon?”

  “Yeah, salmon, crabs, oysters, clams . . . we catch ’em all, and I can taste ’em in my sleep.” He eyed the hot dogs Nate had placed in the frying pan. “I’d kill for a McDonald’s cheeseburger and large fries,” he said, “but a hot dog’s good enough.”

  When they were heated through, Nate speared one with a fork, stuffed it into a bun, and held it out. Joey wolfed it down in three large bites. “Got any more?” he asked, eyeing Nate’s half-eaten hot dog. Nate handed him the rest of his and it disappeared as quickly as the first.

  “You can have dinner with us tonight,” Joey said, rolling to his feet and letting out a satisfied belch. “Come on; I’ll show you our forest.”

  As they walked along a dirt road leading uphill from the beach, Joey rattled on. Nate listened with half an ear as he looked around, taking in the huge cedars, limbs spread like umbrellas overhead. Only the occasional stream of sunlight filtered through from above, and the ground lay quiet and empty all around. No sunlight, no green plants, Nate surmised.

  Joey broke into Nate’s thoughts. “For once, it won’t be salmon or anything else from the sea.”

  “What won’t?”

  “Dinner,” Joey said, tossing him an exasperated look.

  “Why is that?” Nate asked.

  “My brother, David, and our friend, Beagle, caught a couple of big salmon this morning and hiked out to see if they could sell them to some tourists.”

  “Can’t the tourists catch their own salmon?”

  “Nope. Don’t have the right lures and don’t know where to fish. David’s a whiz, though; catches at least one every day.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Don’t know, probably around nine or so. Before lunch.” Joey pointed at his bare wrist. “Don’t have a watch. Don’t need one around here.” He patted his belly. “I tell time by my stomach. First rumble’s breakfast, second’s midmorning snack time, third’s lunch.” He pushed two large ferns apart and stepped off the road onto a narrow path. “You get the picture?”

  Nate nodded. He could relate, although he hadn’t been eating nearly as much as he did at home—at least not junk food.

  They had left the sheltered, barren area beneath the cedars and moved into a lush, greener landscape. Maples and small firs dotted the terrain, surrounded by wild grasses. Blackberry brambles lined both sides of the path, sometimes stretching right over their heads to form a thorny tunnel.

  “They logged this area,” Joey said. “That’s why there are only small trees and lots of bushy things growing.”

  Farther up the path they crossed a small log that served as a bridge over a dark muddy creek. They moved into a boggy area, and Nate slapped at a mosquito, coming dangerously close to tripping into a thorn-studded branch.

  “What’s that smell?” Nate pinched his nose.

  “Skunk cabbage,” Joey said, continuing down the path as if he were immune to the stench. “You hardly notice it after a while.”

  The ground was wet and squishy, and Nate’s feet grew blacker with each step.

  “How much farther?” he asked.

  “No
t far,” Joey said. He pointed over some low-lying bushes to his right, and Nate could see a large pond. “They call that the bog,” he said. “Some islanders come here to skinny dip, but not that many people know about it. Still, the water’s not too cold and there aren’t any leeches. Least none have sucked on us yet. David says it does fine as a bath.”

  They made their way past the bog and up a rocky hill. The earth underfoot grew firm again as the thick greenery gave way to another patch of tall cedars. A moment later, Nate found himself in the middle of a small, circular meadow, but he didn’t notice the tiny cabin until he was ten feet from its door.

  “This is it,” Joey said. “Home sweet home.”

  Nate stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the lower light. The cabin was about fifteen feet long and about the same width. A narrow counter, bare except for a stack of plates and a mottled wash pan, ran down one wall, crowned by a single window above it and two roughly hewn shelves below. Piles of neatly folded clothes covered both shelves at one end; the other end held pots and pans, a few tools, and a couple of boxes of what looked like macaroni and cheese.

  In the middle of the back wall stood a woodstove scarred with age. A pile of firewood, covered by a few sheets of newspaper, lay stacked beside it. Against the other wall, opposite the counter, lay a dilapidated, moth-eaten queen-size mattress strewn with sleeping bags that seemed to match its age. In the only free corner of the room, three pieces of a thick rough log had been chopped into chairs and placed around a makeshift table. The table legs were also made of logs, and the top was a piece of driftwood that had been worn smooth and flat.

  “So, what do you think?” Joey asked, flopping down on the mattress. “Not bad, huh?”

  “No. Not bad at all,” Nate said as he thought about his room in New York with the fake stars on the sky-blue ceiling and the Mickey Mouse poster his mother had stuck on the wall. He glanced around the room again, and noticed a patch of bright sky showing through the window and the freshly repaired ceiling above. He turned back to Joey and grinned. “In fact, I think it’s awesome.”