by Chris Angus
He grabbed the slicker he’d left at Sarah’s and then wrote down his cell phone number for her. “I don’t think this will work once we get out of the bay. There isn’t complete coverage on this part of the coast. But I’ll check in when I can.”
He led Sarah out to the beach where Tom had positioned the two boats along with spray skirts, paddles, and life jackets. He stopped at his car long enough to pick up his Glock, stuffing the pistol into a waterproof sack.
Then they skirted up and stepped into the boats without saying much. Sarah looked worried standing on the little pebble beach. “Gar—be careful. Are you sure about this? Don’t you need more help?”
“Don’t worry,” he lied. “This is more by way of a trial run. We need to see if using the kayaks will really work as a way for us to get close. We’ll use caution if it looks like we’re dealing with too large a force. I promise.” He avoided looking at Tom and gave her a quick kiss. Then they were away into a rising mist off the bay.
Tom paddled in next to him. “Caution would be a good thing,” he said. “Too bad Lonnie’s in Halifax. We could use him. But, you know … if we get the chance to free some girls from these SOBs, we’re going to take it.”
“I know,” said Garrett. “And I think Sarah knows too. She was married to this, don’t forget.”
Tom just said, “Yep. I got it.”
It was three in the afternoon, a little more than five hours until sunset. It ought to be enough. Tom had GPS navigation equipment that should allow them to keep on course in darkness or heavy fog. And the Coast Guard officer was a good navigator. Garrett, on the other hand, was pretty rusty. It was twenty years since he’d done any serious kayaking. It wouldn’t be good to get separated from his companion.
The headland here was dotted with new German homes, most built in the last three years, their yards and boat launches still graveled scars on the landscape. It would be quite a few years before the thin maritime soil replaced the spruce that had been uprooted.
He stared at the houses grimly until he and Tom left the mainland and they fell behind. The change from the emptiness of this place when he was growing up was huge. Still, he knew a few houses didn’t change the fact that the North Atlantic could be an unforgiving place. The combination of wind, waves, and swell could quickly put a small boater at risk. Often, the three elements barreled in from completely different directions. A sudden gust could unbalance an unwary paddler. The fourth element of North Atlantic paddling was water temperature. Even in August, it hovered around fifty degrees. Twenty minutes in water that cold could incapacitate, with death close behind.
By any reasonable paradigm of caution, they ought to have backup, someone at least aware of where they were, preferably someone in Tom’s cutter, far enough behind not to scare off the smugglers, but close enough to be in radio contact. Trouble was, what they were doing was not reasonable and had not been approved by their superiors. If Tuttle had known what they were about, he would have quashed the idea. Taking on a boatload of desperate smugglers on the high seas in a couple of plastic kayaks was madness. But it was also the only way Garrett knew to get the job done.
Tom was the only Coast Guard officer for this section of coast. There would be no backup unless they got into trouble and called for it … assuming Garrett’s cell phone worked … and there was anyone close enough to be useful.
21
THEY SOON DEVELOPED A RHYTHM, paddling steadily. A heavy mist hung in the air and coated their slickers, not quite rain and not quite fog. The essence of Nova Scotia weather.
Their world was gray, the sky low and filled with bulbous clouds that looked like damp, oversized cotton balls. The heavy light seemed to weigh them down, making every islet a fuzzy gray blob against a horizon line that was nearly imperceptible. Even the occasional squawking gulls seemed like gray phantoms swooping overhead. For the first hour it was quiet, almost deathly calm, with not a breath of moving air. Garrett thought they would make good time.
Then the mist turned to a light drizzle and the wind started to pick up. Soon, small whitecaps began to form, their tops whipped into little windblown waterspouts. Garrett had boated in worse conditions. Still, there was no telling how much things might deteriorate. The wind was coming at them straight on now, the rain stinging their faces. In the back of Garrett’s head a little mouse chewed away on the idea that this system could be the outskirts of the hurricane.
His breathing was becoming strained. He wasn’t in the same sort of condition Tom was for this. His lower leg ached as his prosthesis pressed against the rudder controls. There was now a sizable ocean swell. The boats rose high in the air and then descended, their noses momentarily underwater before rising again. The wind was against them, while the waves slapped at a forty-five-degree angle. He had to constantly adjust his weight and paddling force, always prepared for a sudden gust that might turn his nose sideways, exposing him to being upended in the frigid water. That was an outcome he didn’t want to contemplate. There would be little Tom could do. If he tried to come back and help, which Garrett knew he would, he risked turning over himself.
They stuck close to each island that hove into view, using them as shields against the wind. After what seemed an eternity but was probably a little over two hours, they edged into the protected shoals of Rupert’s Island, where they took their first real break. Garrett’s shoulders were on fire. There was no wind on the lee side of the island, and the rain let up. It seemed like the weather was coming in bands.
“How you doing?” Tom asked.
“Okay,” Garrett lied. “Well, a little sore. I haven’t done this in a while.”
“The best is yet to come. You sure you want to go through with this?”
He almost said no, but the image of a little girl, shot in the back and dying in his arms, stopped him. Maybe there was another girl like her out there somewhere—in the dark hold of a freighter or fishing boat, huddled, fearful, about to enter into the worst nightmare one could imagine. He and Tom were all she had between her and a living hell.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
“All right. Try not to fall too far behind me on this next section. This will be open water with no islands for protection until we reach Little Snow and Big Snow islands. There’s no turning back once we’re into it.”
Garrett just nodded, a queasy feeling in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten in a long time, and he thought of Sarah’s sandwiches, but knew he’d probably chuck anything that he ate right now.
He followed a few feet behind as they rounded Rupert’s Island and were met by the fiercest wind yet. There was at least a three-foot chop. Waves hit the rocks like artillery shells, huge plumes of spray whipping high and then disappearing into the grayness. Garrett tried to quarter into the wind. Every few minutes, the combination of a big wave striking at a strange angle and a gust of unexpected wind would send their tiny crafts reeling. Then it was only by paddling fiercely and throwing their body weight one way or the other that they managed to keep upright. Garrett could barely see Little Snow, floating in the mist, a seemingly impossible distance away.
“How far across?” he yelled to Tom.
“About four miles,” he cried back. “Little over an hour in calm water. But in this … no way to be sure. Twice as much anyway. There was some bad weather predicted but it was expected to stay far offshore. Maybe the wind will shift and help us out.”
Garrett doubted it. The law of the sea was immutable: the wind was never at your back.
There was no more talking, unless grunting was considered a form of speech. His mind went numb as he paddled with every fiber of strength he possessed. With no nearby shoreline, it was impossible to gauge if they were making any headway at all, as though they were paddling inside one of those clear plastic Santaballs, going round and round, nothing ever changing. Every now and then, another wave of weather would surge in and the rain would pelt them, as if someone had turned the Santa upside down in order to stir things up.
Though it was only six o’clock, it seemed later … and darker. Garrett couldn’t quite imagine being out here after dark. He’d often kayaked under a full moon, the islands casting strange shadows, the moon’s glow reflected beneath him. But with the sky overcast, the blackness would soon be complete. Then there’d be no forward or backward, no up or down. He wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face. They’d be in limbo, like spirits floating in a world without boundaries, completely reliant on the GPS. The relentless waves would continue to blow in from every angle, but once darkness fell, he wouldn’t be able to see them, wouldn’t be able to anticipate their force or intent.
He was unable to keep up with Tom. Garrett saw him peek back once or twice to see how he was doing. But the simple act of turning to look back could unbalance even a skilled paddler. To cease paddling for even a moment risked the boat turning crosswise to the waves, a potentially disastrous outcome. Turning around to come back and help was out of the question.
Garrett fell farther and farther behind. The crossing seemed to be taking much longer than they had anticipated. His arms and shoulders had become one large aching mass, indistinguishable from each other.
Then, darkness fell. Not the gradual approach of evening one was used to; rather, it was as if someone turned out a light in a windowless room. Garrett managed to look at the luminous dial of his watch, which read only eight o’clock. The sun wouldn’t set for another thirty minutes. But he couldn’t see. The clouds must have thickened with the approaching storm to the point of allowing no light at all to penetrate.
Panic rose in his chest. What direction should he go? He could no longer see Tom or the waves and struggled desperately to keep the boat balanced against what were now a series of invisible forces, as if some demonic ogre kept pushing maliciously against his small craft. Only one constant remained. The wind. It had been directly in Garrett’s face when he last saw Tom and lined his boat up with the island. He’d have to trust it wouldn’t shift direction.
He paddled straight into the teeth of the growing gale, waves now four to seven feet, breaking across his bow and splashing against the boat skirt, sending salt spray into his face. His eyes stung from all the salt, so he had to wipe them against his sleeve constantly. Since he couldn’t see anyway, he tried keeping them shut, but that was worse, too abnormal.
His arms felt like two dead things. Blisters on both hands stung from the salt water and the constant rubbing with each turn of the paddle. God knew how much longer he could keep this up. Once his strength failed, he’d be able to do nothing but pray the boat wouldn’t flip when he turned and ran before the wind until he struck land. He knew, though, he’d be as likely to blow straight to Newfoundland as back to the coast.
Just when he decided he must have missed the island, conditions suddenly took a turn for the worse, if that were possible. The wind seemed to change direction and then ratchet up as though someone had turned on some mighty celestial wind tunnel. He was in a full-blown gale. He wondered if the hurricane had decided to swipe the province more directly than they’d anticipated. He had never experienced such wind before.
His arms were throbbing and he could do almost nothing. It was so black that paddling made little sense anyway so far as direction was concerned. He had no idea which way to go. He allowed the boat to turn till the wind was behind him, an effort that nearly swamped him. Then he ran before the blast.
At least it was less effort. He used his paddling skills now just to keep the boat straight and to balance against any rogue waves that decided to come in at an angle. He was skimming along, faster than he’d ever gone in a kayak. The little boat rose with the swell and crashed down, almost submerging into the water. It felt like the craft would come apart at the seams. Garrett prayed Tom had found safe haven somewhere. It had been madness to come out here with a storm approaching.
A wave hit him broadside and he threw himself against the side of the boat to counteract its thrust. His movement caused the spray skirt to come loose in the back. He struggled to reattach it as freezing water began to enter the boat with every wave that crested over the kayak. He needed both hands to get the spray skirt back on and was forced to stick his paddle inside the boat. This left him totally at the mercy of the wind, yet somehow he stayed afloat.
When he picked up his paddle again, the boat actually seemed steadier. The water that had gotten inside was stabilizing him, lowering the boat’s center of gravity. He didn’t want to think about what all that salt water was doing to his bionic equipment. His legs were so cold he couldn’t feel anything, not even his phantom foot.
He ran before the wind for a long time. It felt like hours, though he had no way of telling. His watch must have stopped from the salt spray, as the luminous dial no longer worked. Everything was blackness and stinging rain and cold. About the time he decided he must be halfway to Ireland and ought to be on the lookout for freighter traffic, he saw a sudden flash of light.
It was distant and disappeared at once. But he stared at where it had been until he saw it again. There was a quick flash and movement and then it was gone again. He knew at once what it was. Lighthouse Point. He was far out to sea, then, blowing away from the mainland. He strained to see the light again. It was his one chance. If he missed the little island that held the lighthouse, he knew there was nothing but open ocean until the British Isles.
He began to focus on the light, learning its rhythm, adjusting his course each time it appeared. It was difficult to keep on the trajectory he wanted. Even though the light gave a sure beacon, the wind was pushing him away from it. At some point he would have to paddle against the wind in order to hit his objective. For now, he continued to try to quarter his boat against the wind behind him.
For every hundred yards he flew before the blast, he inched his craft a few yards nearer to the light. It was going to be close.
Then he could see the lighthouse itself, almost a hundred feet tall, surrounded by a rocky shore. Waves smashed against the rocks, causing huge sprays of white foam that reflected the light momentarily, then disappeared until the revolving pulse returned. The island loomed suddenly closer. He was moving so quickly before the wind that it was going to be on him faster than he expected.
There was no more time to go with the wind. Now, he had to fight directly into the teeth of the gale. He paddled till his shoulders felt like they were ripping apart, the sinews of muscle ready to leap out of his skin. Still, he was losing the battle. He could see he wouldn’t come closer than a hundred yards from the end of the island before the wind carried him off into the night. No matter how hard he paddled, it was fruitless against the fierce blow.
He stopped paddling when he saw he wouldn’t make it, his arms and shoulders quivering from the effort. He had a decision to make, and only seconds to make it. Should he leave the boat and try to swim to the island? He was a strong swimmer, though the pain in his shoulders suggested his swimming would be severely handicapped. In the water, he wouldn’t be subject to the forces of wind that blew against the kayak. He might make it. Of course, if he didn’t, then he’d be floating in the frigid water and his life could be measured in minutes.
In the end, he stayed with the boat. He watched the lighthouse fall away behind him. Now he truly was in the cruel, open North Atlantic, nothing but thousands of square miles of ocean surrounding him. He replayed his decision not to swim for it over and over. At least it would have settled things quickly, one way or the other. Now he would be forced to spend more hours and even days fighting the storm. But he had no illusions as to the inevitable outcome. Either exhaustion or hypothermia would take him eventually.
22
TOM HUDDLED IN THE LEE of Big Snow Island. He couldn’t see much of anything in the dark, but had been able to check his GPS thanks to its illuminated screen. It was the only reason he’d made it to land. He had no idea where Garrett was. He knew his friend had been falling behind and even attempted to slow his rate of paddling so Garrett might c
atch up, though it endangered his own boat. Turning around was impossible, and in the blackness and noise of the storm, he’d probably have missed Garrett anyway.
He called himself hoarse but the wind swallowed his cry. Garrett was out there somewhere, alone, with nothing to guide him. The possibility he would hit the Snow Islands by chance was slim to none.
He considered his options. He could stay here, try to wait out the storm, then look for Garrett. But the wind showed every intention of blowing all night. If Garrett had overturned and was in the cold water, he was as good as dead, no matter that he had a life jacket on. The frigid water would snuff out his life in an hour at the outside. If he managed to keep the boat afloat, he’d be blown out to sea. Tom tried his cell phone again.There was no service.
There really was only one choice. He had to go back. With the GPS, finding his way in the dark wouldn’t be a problem. It was set to guide him straight back to the wharf. It would be an intimidating struggle against the ache that already invaded his shoulders. But if Garrett was on his way to Ireland, Tom needed to contact the Coast Guard and air/sea rescue to try to find him. He realized that being in a kayak without GPS in such seas was worse than being helpless.
It was past midnight when he finally sighted the light of the wharf. Inside the inner islands, the wind lessened but still whipped up whitecaps with grim determination.
As he pulled onto the little beach by the wharf, he was surprised to see half a dozen vehicles and the Coast Guard cutter from the next station down the shore. Men were milling about and then he saw Sarah. She wore a yellow slicker and gum boots and ran to him as soon as she saw him.
