by Dawne Knobbe
Nate’s feet sunk into the soft dry sand. He dropped his fishing rod beside a log and, securing his mask, he waded into the bay. The water was cool and soothing to his bruised muscles, but the gash on his ankle stung painfully. The sun was lowering on the other side of the island, and the light that filtered through the water formed eerie reflective shadows on the bottom, adding new dimensions to submerged logs and barnacle-encrusted rocks.
Small fish darted between the shadows, eyeing Nate suspiciously, but he ignored them in his search for something large enough to eat. He saw a patch of long, green sea grass, the type crabs like to hide in. He swam toward it, pushed aside a section of weeds, and studied the sandy bottom. A slight movement to his right caught Nate’s eye, and a large Dungeness crab darted back toward the cover of the grass. Nate grabbed it from behind, trying to keep his fingers from the claws like David had taught him, but the crab was more flexible than Nate imagined it would be. The prey pinched down painfully on the predator’s thumb. Nate shook his hand free, then watched as his dinner floated down and scurried out of sight. He needed Beagle’s tongs, or a spear, and something to put the crabs in so he could carry more than one back to shore. Nate gave up, thinking that maybe, for the moment, he might have better luck with his fishing rod.
He waded ashore, grabbed it, and headed along a rocky slab that disappeared into the water. He pulled off a mussel and crunched it under his heel, hoping the fish here liked mussels as much as the ones off Galiano did. He wasn’t playing at survival anymore. He really had to fend for himself.
He hadn’t fished from shore on Galiano, but he didn’t think it would be too hard. He cast out his line, and it sank quickly. Maybe I should have taken off the weight, he thought. As he reeled in the line he felt a tug. His stomach grumbled with excitement, but as he tried to pull it in, he realized he had snagged something other than a fish. Nate put the rod down on the rock and waded back in. The water felt colder, and a spasm ran up the back of his leg. He didn’t want to cut the line and lose one of the precious lures David had given him.
The lure was tangled around a patch of sea grass. As he twisted the line free, Nate saw another large crab scurry into the weeds. Distracted, he yanked at the line, and the hook twisted in his hand, digging into his uninjured thumb.
“Shit!” he sputtered, his curse an unsatisfying muffle of bubbles. Holding the back of the hook so it wouldn’t dig any deeper, Nate stumbled onto the rock. He carefully maneuvered the hook out of his flesh, and a trickle of blood streamed down his palm. He shook his hand trying to numb the pain, then picked up his fishing rod and carefully reeled in the line. He didn’t think there was an inch of him left that didn’t hurt.
Back at camp, Nate plopped down on his sleeping bag inside the tent. The sun was setting so quickly, it would be dark in a matter of minutes. He considered making a campfire but couldn’t muster the energy. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of soggy bread, but they stuck in his throat. He lay down hungry, knowing he had to think things through more carefully. He could outsmart a crusty old crab, couldn’t he?
If he fashioned a spear and some kind of float for his fishing line, maybe he could use his ripped dry bag to hold the crabs after he caught them. He yawned and slipped toward sleep, weaving crab traps out of driftwood in his head.
Nate rose with the sun. The chatter of the squirrels had been an annoying alarm clock, but he didn’t care. Today he was determined to catch crabs; maybe even the big one that got away, he thought with a laugh.
He examined his dry bag but decided it would be too difficult to drag through the water. No, he needed to build some sort of contraption that would hold his prey but let water flow out. Using a stick, Nate drew several designs in the dirt. Eventually, he came up with an idea that might work.
He gathered long, thin sticks and tied them together using the cord from his sleeping bag. He formed a small stick box about a foot high and a foot and a half long. He secured more sticks along the sides, then fashioned a hatch. He figured it should work like a real crab trap. He twisted the sticks that formed the hatch door so that it opened inward but not out. If he caught a salmon, he’d tie the fish head inside as bait. If it worked as he hoped, he could set it out in the bay, then return later to collect the crabs. Now that was planning, he thought.
He set down the trap and chose a long straight stick from a pile of beached debris. Using his pocketknife, Nate shaved the end into a point. Snapping his knife shut, he held up his spear. “Me, caveman!” he shouted, dancing in a circle and beating his chest. He stopped for a moment, feeling foolish, then remembered he was alone. He picked up the trap and danced his way to the shore bellowing an impromptu hunting chant.
It didn’t take Nate many mouthfuls of saltwater to realize he couldn’t swim well with both spear and trap in hand. He let go of the trap, thinking it would sink, but it floated. This wasn’t going to work the way he had hoped. Better to leave the trap on shore and spear a crab.
The sun was hot and well overhead; it must be way past lunchtime, he calculated; so much for breakfast. Just the idea of food made his stomach twinge. He headed for the sea grass again, carrying only his spear and feeling more determined than ever.
He’d forgotten his mask, but the water was so calm and clear he could see well enough. He dove, pulled the weeds aside, and spotted a good-size crab. He stabbed with his spear, impaling it. Raising the spear so the crab couldn’t wriggle off, Nate swam in awkwardly. He shook the crab into his trap, where it scuttled about despite the large hole in its shell. Satisfied that it could not escape, Nate headed back to his watery hunting ground. An early dinner might be his only meal of the day, but he was going to make it a feast.
As the sun slid closer to the treetops on the far side of the island, Nate sat beside his small stove pulling crab legs out of the boiling pot with a stick. He cracked the shells between his teeth and sucked out the sweet meat, devouring every last leg of five crabs. Full and content at last, Nate sat back and considered what should be at the top of his to-do list. He was determined to make a real home like David had out of the cabin. Maybe he’d build a roof over the concrete slab. And, even though he had a whole bag of matches, he knew that he’d eventually run out of cooking fuel. Better to build a fire in the fireplace and see if he could rig some sort of cooking grate before that happened.
Still, he had to catch more crabs or a fish if he was going to have anything to cook.
But first, he thought, he should mark down the days. Without a working watch, they might start to blend, and he’d have no idea how long he’d been shipwrecked.
He dug through his supplies searching for the trip journal he’d thrown in but hadn’t cracked. The corners were water warped and the lines blurred, but it was usable, and luckily, the pencil he had tucked between the pages hadn’t fallen out.
He wrote:
Day One
Survived storm. Landed on small uninhabited island some time around midnight. My watch is busted, kayak wrecked. I am cut, bruised, and exhausted. Slept. Lucky, I guess.
Day Two
Woke sometime in afternoon. Hurt from head to toe. Moved gear from kayak. Explored island. No one lives here, but I found a concrete slab and chimney where a house must have been. I moved my stuff to that spot. Made camp. Can see a bigger island in the distance. Too far to swim. Tried to catch a crab, got pinched.
Day Three
Made a spear and crab trap. Caught five crabs, boiled in saltwater. Best I ever tasted! Worried about fresh water supply, have two, two-gallon jugs and a small bottle. Will look for a stream tomorrow.
Nate’s eyelids felt heavy, and he couldn’t think of anything more to write. Where had the day gone, he wondered. He closed the book, promising himself to write every day. Crawling into his sleeping bag, his eyes were shut before his head touched down.
16
Nate filleted the small salmon he had just caught and stuck it in the frying pan. He had jammed the metal cooking ring from his portable stove in the top
of the old chimney, making an efficient cooking surface.
He poked at the fire to spread the glowing hot chunks of wood then picked up the fish head.
Back at the beach, he tied the fish head to the middle of the crab trap and swam out to his favorite hunting area. Diving down, he pushed the trap to the bottom and secured it with stones he had left at the spot days earlier. Satisfied the trap wouldn’t float away, Nate swam back to the surface.
By the time he wandered back to camp, his dinner was sizzling away in the pan. He checked with a stick to make sure his fish wasn’t burning and went over to sit at the table he had fashioned out of driftwood. He picked up his diary and began to write. He’d been so busy over the past several days, he’d taken little time to record his activities, and he wanted to fill in some of his accomplishments.
Day Ten
Have built half the roof over my concrete patio. Have no food left from original supplies. Found small stream running to the beach, mostly dried up. Boiled the water really well but it was still gritty and tasted disgusting. Will try to build solar still from diagram in kayak book tomorrow. Found plum tree yesterday, and lots of blackberries, yum. Need to look for other food sources. Know how Joey felt now. So sick of crab and fish.
Saw small sailboat circling island this afternoon, looked like a girl, all in black. Weird for a hot day. We waved, but I didn’t signal for help! Not quite ready to face reality. Face the consequences. Pay the piper. You name the cliché, I’m not ready for it. I’m okay for now but may be time to leave soon one way or another. Did I mention how sick I am of crab and fish? Still can’t bring myself to eat clams. Found oysters, but they scare me too.
Satisfied for the moment, Nate put down his pencil and opened his kayak book to the diagram of the solar still. Without the still, he’d have no fresh drinking water and would have to leave the island. He suspected he was already dehydrated. His tongue felt thick and dry, no matter how many blackberries and plums he ate.
The next morning Nate rose with the birds as usual. He grabbed his plastic tarp and headed to the beach, searching for the right spot to build his still. According to the book, it wouldn’t take much: just a plastic sheet, a hole about three feet wide and two feet deep, and a container to catch water as it condensed. He needed a spot directly in the sun, and he remembered a natural dip in the path before the sand started. It wasn’t ideal because the ground on one side was lower, but he figured it would work as long as he put the water container in the right place.
He stuck the container at the lowest spot in the dip, then took his plastic tarp and carefully laid it across. He placed a stone in the center forming an indentation in the tarp over the pot. The sun would evaporate the water in the soil and grass under the tarp; the water would condense onto the plastic; the drops would roll into his pot. Voilá! He would have water. At least, if everything went right he would.
He gathered more stones to secure the tarp along the edges. Now he had nothing left to do but wait and see if it worked.
“Hey! Hey you!”
Nate had been so engrossed he hadn’t noticed the small sailboat enter the bay. The girl he’d seen yesterday had maneuvered her boat close to shore, and the sail flapped uselessly against the mast. A dog that looked like a golden lab stood on top of a bunch of gear in the bow of the boat, wagging its tail.
“You know you’re trespassing?” the girl called. “This is a private island.”
“You own it?” he asked, squinting against the sun to see her clearly. She was all in black again: black T-shirt—skull and crossbones painted across the front—and black shorts. Her hair was a fierce black too, obviously not her natural color. Even her lips were painted black.
She slipped over the side of the boat and towed it to shore.
“Give me a hand,” she said.
Nate jumped down onto the beach and waded into the shin-deep water. As the girl gripped the starboard side, he took port, and they shoved the sailboat onto the sand. Up close he could see the boat was loaded with gear. He frowned. “Planning on staying a while?”
She ignored the question. “Where’s your boat?” she asked.
“Wrecked in the storm.”
“What storm?”
“About ten days ago.”
She shrugged. “Just arrived day before yesterday.”
“Arrived where?”
She pointed to the island in the distance. “Arrived there.” She studied Nate’s shirtless chest, dirty shorts, and all-around scruffy appearance. Suddenly he felt self-conscious. He hadn’t seen the inside of a shower in weeks.
“So, castaway,” she said, her black lips curving into a mischievous smile, “we have a little role reversal here. I must be the knight and you the damsel in distress.”
“That’s what you think, huh?” Nate said, scratching at his salt-encrusted chin, which he hadn’t dared waste fresh water to wash.
“You do need rescuing, don’t you?” she asked.
“Not exactly. What I actually need is fresh water.”
Nate hunkered down beside his solar still and straightened the tarp in one corner.
“What the hell is that?” she asked.
“A solar still.”
“You’re trying to make booze?”
“No.” He laughed. “I’m trying to make water. This campground doesn’t come equipped with hot water and flush toilets, you know.”
The dog whined, and Goth Girl clutched him by the collar, encouraging him to jump. “Come on, Rye,” she coaxed, whistling. Turning toward Nate she explained, “He never has trouble getting into the boat, but for some reason getting out always freaks him.”
The dog hesitated, then leaped onto the beach where he rolled happily in the sand before running off to sniff at piles of driftwood.
The girl bent over the boat and dragged her duffle bag over the side. “Seeing as you’re here, could you give me a hand?”
“What do you think this is, the Hilton?” Nate grumbled, stomping back down to the boat.
She rummaged around in the bottom as he strode toward her then turned to reveal a huge water container in each hand. “I heard that,” she said. “Lucky for you I don’t get pissed off easily. Maybe we could work some kind of trade deal.” She dropped the two containers at his feet. “You help me get my camp set up, and I pay you in drinking water.”
“So, you’re staying?” he said, reaching for the water and licking his cracked lips.
“Just for a couple of days, sugah,” she said. “That is, if you don’t mind sharing your private isle with little old me?” she batted her blackened eyelashes and fanned herself with her hand.
“At your service, madam,” he said, lifting the containers easily and leaping up the bank.
She followed, her duffle slung over one shoulder and her other arm filled with gear. The dog bounded to the lead as if he knew exactly where he was headed.
“Wow,” she said as they entered his camp. “You’ve really fixed up the place.”
He positioned the water jugs on his makeshift table so they wouldn’t fall over. “You’ve been here before, I take it?”
“Yeah, I come over every summer for a few days to collect driftwood and shells. There’s not much good stuff left on the San Juan beaches by this time of year. Too many tourists.” She glanced around the clearing. “Okay if I camp here too?”
“Yeah,” he said, warming to the idea of having company. “Sorry if I seemed a little unfriendly. I’ve been on my own a while. You kinda get used to your own company.”
“No problema, muchacho,” she said, as she went about unfolding her tent and staking it into the ground on the other side of his cement patio. “Help yourself to the water,” she said over her shoulder.
He picked up a plastic cup and fumbled with the catch on the jug before managing to open the valve. He was trying not to look too eager, but he was suddenly aware of just how parched he was. He swallowed two cupfuls in quick gulps then reached out to grab the table as his gut lurched w
ith the shock of the unfamiliar coldness.
She frowned. “Sit down. You look like you’re going to heave.”
He let her direct him to a crude chair he’d fashioned out of driftwood. “You must be dehydrated.” She slipped her fingers across his wrist to check his pulse.
He didn’t need her to tell him it was racing. He felt like he was going to pass out and throw up at the same time.
“Breathe,” she said, pushing his head down between his knees.
He took a couple of deep breaths, and the world and his stomach seemed to right themselves. He breathed out heavily. “Man, that was brutal.”
“Take small sips from now on. We don’t want you throwing up all of our precious water.”
“I’m gonna go check on my still,” he said as the sick feeling melted away and embarrassment took its place.
When Nate returned to camp an hour later, the girl was nowhere to be seen, but there was a camp chair opposite his wood one and a cup of tiny daisies perched in the center of the table. Her tent was set up and her gear neatly stowed beside it. Along with a camp stove, she had a collection of pots and dishes and cutlery, plus several bags that he assumed contained food. He peeked. As much as he prided himself on being self-sufficient, the idea of something other than crab and fish had him salivating.
“Find anything interesting?” she asked directly behind him.
Startled, he jumped, dropping the bag. He smiled at her sheepishly. “Just thought I smelled something good to eat—other than crab.”
“Could be,” she said, and pushing past him, she rummaged around in the bag and then zipped it up. “You don’t want to leave anything out around here or the squirrels will get it.”
“Yeah, I found that out the hard way.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Hey, how’d you creep up on me so quietly?”
She pointed at her bare feet with the chocolate bar in her hand. “Easy,” she said. “They don’t call me Kat for nothing.”
