Dot found his sweater and grabbed a fleece blanket off the floor where Táan’s dog, Archer usually slept. The fleece was covered in white fur, but she figured the injured man wouldn’t object to a few dog hairs at this point. Once everything was lashed down, Táan looked over at the sailboat. “I’m betting that you’re in no shape to sail that thing right now, are ya?” She shook her head and motioned to the bowline. “Yeah, we’ll tow her home. But I think we’d better leave plenty of space between us. It might get a little lumpy once we’re in Dixon.”
Dot jumped down and walked over to where she’d secured her line. Pushing her little vessel back into the water, she led it over to Táan’s boat. He took the line from her and made it fast on a cleat. As the engine warmed, Dot threw the jacket with her belongings on deck and climbed back aboard. “You ready to go home?” Táan called out. Nodding an emphatic yes, Dot sat down next to him in the wheelhouse. The engine’s low hum soon lulled Dot to sleep and her head fell against Táan’s knee. A short time later, she was startled awake by a tap on her arm. Blinking in the glare, Dot looked up at her friend. Táan had one hand on the wheel, his faded green trucker’s hat sat crookedly on his head. He’d pushed his black hair behind his ears and donned the sunglasses he only wore when on his boat. He smiled down at Dot and gestured toward starboard, saying, “Wake up Kijii, look who’s here—he must have wanted to make that sure that I found you.” Dot scrambled up, looked out the window and spotted Saka’s unmistakable dorsal fin. She opened the wing door and went on deck. Wind whipped her hair as she leaned over the railing. The whale surfaced with a gigantic spray and slapped his tail against the water before submerging. Dot rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of Táan’s sweater and smiled. Good job, Saka. Thank you.
The trek into town had been arduous. They had to pause every few minutes for Dot to rest and reposition her hands. Táan led the way, bearing the heaviest end and Dot tried her best to match his pace. Her fingers threatened to lose their grip on the thin plywood but she held on as tightly as she could. Regardless, the injured man’s body kept sliding toward her as they trudged along.
By early afternoon, they’d arrived in Old Massett. Several people came out of their homes and offered to help carry the litter. Soon enough, there were a dozen able-bodied hands transporting the man to Doc Gravin’s place. Dot surrendered her job and walked behind the procession—her reserves depleted. Curious on-lookers called out; wondering who the stranger was and how he’d been injured. Táan simply shrugged and yelled back, “No clue.”
By late afternoon, a considerable crowd had gathered in the back yard of Doc’s house. Neighbors chatted in small groups about the newcomer, each offering their own theory about where he’d come from. Dot sat on the back porch and dozed as Táan fielded questions. Ol’ Pa walked up to Doc’s fence and called out, “What’s all this excitement about? Where’s my granddaughter?” At the sound of Chanáa’s raspy voice, Dot sprang off the porch steps and sprinted across the lawn, hugging him as he reached the gate. “Glad to see you back home safely, Dottie,” he said. “I knew you’d be alright, resourceful girl that you are. Now, you get on back to the house—Marta’s warming you up a meal. I need to talk with Táan for a few minutes and then I’ll be right behind you. Go on now—get.” Ol’ Pa gave her a hard squeeze before pushing her out the gate.
Marta, dressed in the clothes she wore the previous day, waited for Dot at the doorway. She held a plate of cabbage, biscuits and leftover rabbit stew in her hands. Dot bounded up the steps and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Finally, I was so worried about you!” Marta exclaimed, handing Dot the plate. “Sit yourself down for goodness sake and eat something.” Dot accepted the food and plunked down on the front steps. Marta leaned against the post and watched her devour the food, noting how sunburned the girl’s nose and cheeks had become and wishing that she’d made her wear a hat. Poor Dot was the only fair-skinned person in their community and sunscreen was not a commodity anyone else ever thought about. Marta asked, “Do you want me to get some vinegar for your face?” Dot wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Marta’s vinegar remedy was a smelly solution to sun exposure and Dot despised it. She couldn’t bear to smell like pickled kelp—she knew her friends could smell it on her skin and it made her feel different—separated from them. She knew it was just Marta’s way of mothering her, but she couldn’t wait until the day when her all of freckles would blend together and her complexion would be the same butterscotch brown as everyone else’s.
Marta stepped to the far end of the porch, looked toward Doc’s house and said, “I hear that the man you found over by Tow Hill was Asian—is this true?” Dot nodded as she placed a forkful of rabbit in her mouth. Marta was silent for some time. She crossed her arms and said, “Someone in Skidegate said that the fetchers were looking for an overdue boat. I’m pretty sure they said it was one of the snakehead’s shipments.” Setting her plate aside, Dot looked up at Marta with concern. Everyone knew the snakehead boats were notorious for their callous handling of immigrants. The presence of a snakehead boat in the islands always seemed to attract the Mossies—like bears to honey, as Ol’ Pa would say. Suddenly, everything about the shipwrecked man made sense to Dot and she felt lucky that there had been no trackers patrolling the east side of the island yesterday. “Do you think this man will survive?” Marta moved to sit down beside her adopted daughter and made a concerted effort to sound off-handed as she continued. “Because… If he lives, that is, we’ll probably have to hide him somewhere until we can remove his chip. No need to bring any trackers this way.”
Ol’ Pa walked up the pathway, bringing Táan with him. “Hey Marta, you got any more of that rabbit in the kitchen? I brought home another hungry sailor,” he said.
“There’s a bite or two left maybe.” She pulled herself up and went toward the door. “Have a seat, I’ll bring you out a plate.”
Táan smiled and thanked Marta. Following Ol’ Pa onto the porch, he tugged at Dot’s curls and winked as he passed her. “Hey Kij’, the doc says you found that guy in the nick of time—he probably wouldn’t have made it another day out there.” Táan unbuttoned his flannel shirt and wiped his hands on the white tee he wore underneath. “I guess that makes you some sort of hero now.”
Marta reappeared, passed a plate over to Táan and handed Dot a cup of salal tea. Pulling another chair over to the little table, she gestured for the young man to sit. Dot relished the look of pride on Marta’s face as Táan described Saka’s antics in the bay that led him to go search for them, explaining how they’d transported the injured man back to town. Marta and Ol’ Pa discussed when the man might be moved and where he should be kept until then. Ol’ Pa informed them about the meeting that had been convened for that evening. Eventually, Táan’s mother and his little brothers came over from across the street and asked to hear the story retold. Dot leaned against the railing and dozed, listening to the voices around her.
Later that day, as the rest of the town gathered at the longhouse, Dot excused herself and went for a walk. She hiked for several miles toward the wide beaches of Haida’s northern shore. The sun began to sink behind the horizon as she climbed the last dune. Reaching the summit, Dot saw the skeletal framework of a hull near the shoreline. A decade of exposure to the elements left only its weathered frames and rusted keel resting atop some boulders. Dot sat down on the crest of the dune. She wrapped her arms around her knees and watched the coral skies blend to amethyst behind the wreck of the Dottie Rose.
7 A Cloud on the Horizon
Astoria Oregon. Jul 3. 2022
46°11'26.5"N 123°50'59.8"W
Evie stood upright on her pedals and forced her bicycle over the steepest portion of the bridge’s ramp. Beads of sweat formed on her freckled face as she pumped the last few yards. Come on almost… there. Vehicles sped past her, oblivious of her struggle as they focused on the four-mile overpass. Once Evie reached the first span—where the sidewalk separated from the two-lane traffic—she ho
pped off her bike and slid the pack from her shoulders. Unzipping the front pouch, she grabbed her handheld radio and the binoculars her parents had given her on her recent birthday. She unclicked her bike helmet and slung it over the handlebars. Now all she had to do was wait.
The new binocs were heavy, but the magnification was strong and automatically focused as she scanned the horizon. With these new glasses and the added height of the bridge, she figured that she could spot her dad’s boat as it crossed the Columbia Bar. Killing time, she aimed her new binocs at the waterfront and watched the activities below.
Astoria’s waterfront was jam-packed with cafes, hotels and gift shops as well as warehouses and freight yards. A giant cruise ship dominated the wharf alongside the Old Cannery Mall pier. Sunlight reflected off its alabaster hull and twenty decks-worth of windows. Evie zoomed in to observe the dockworkers as they rushed up and down the ramps to load supplies and fuel onboard the vessel. Groups of early-bird passengers mustered near the boarding gate. She magnified her lenses further and searched for her mother inside the boarding kiosk. The building was partially obstructed by the large HighTower offices, and yet she managed to spot her mother’s face from the open ticket window. Evie considered radio-ing her mom to tell her she’d made it to the bridge, but knew that boarding-days were her busiest, so instead she watched as the line of eager cruisers sprawled down the pier.
Growing tired of spying on the passengers, Evie raised her glasses toward the boardwalk. Sightseers ambled along the wooden walkway that stretched from the wharf toward Smith Point Park. Tour groups, fresh off the buses, clutched visitor’s maps and paused at historical markers to snap photos. She adjusted the focus to watch Mr. Dunsmuir’s rusty tug push the fireworks barge upriver for tomorrow’s Independence Day celebration.
Astoria’s busiest weekend was in full swing as vacationers flocked to the Oregon Coast to explore its beaches and see the fireworks show over the Columbia. It seemed to Evie that everywhere she looked there were hundreds of gapers; her dad’s favorite word for the out-of-towners. She yawned and rested her elbows on the rails. A horn blast from below the bridge caught her attention. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she gazed across the river toward Washington’s shoreline. A RORO—one of the ships that imported cars overseas—motored underneath the bridge. Evie liked the way its nickname tripped off her tongue. “Ro-ro,” she murmured. “Roll on—roll off.”
The Columbia River’s anchorages were full of these enormous cargo ships and freighters, but from Evie’s lofty vantage they resembled a fleet of toy boats. Commercial fishermen maneuvered around the behemoths, taking care to stay well away from the outsized anchor chains. Evie absentmindedly peeled a flake of green paint from the railing and flicked it over the side, staring as it fluttered toward the water. Suddenly, a familiar red-hulled vessel appeared in the distance. She reached down for her binocs and flipped the knob of the handheld.
Evie’s father Brock, steered his sixty-five-foot boat Nomad, past Cape Disappointment Lighthouse. After two weeks at sea, he returned to Astoria with his hold full of Albacore tuna. The crew were anxious to cash in their shares and Brock looked forward to spending the Fourth with his wife and daughter. Conditions on the bar were rough that morning and large waves stacked up as Columbia’s current confronted the Pacific’s flood. Brock throttled up and Nomad plowed through the fourteen-foot waves. Once they crossed the bar, things calmed down somewhat and Brock checked his GPS, making a brief note in the ship’s log.
A static-y voice came over the VHF. “Nomad, Nomad, Nomad. This is Buttercup, do you copy?”
Brock smiled and pulled the radio’s mic from its hook. He replied, “Buttercup, this is Nomad, switching over to six-eight.”
“Six-eight, Nomad.” Brock turned the dial on his VHF and spoke into the mic. “Well, hello there! What-up, Buttercup?”
“Dad? Is that you over by Fort Stevens?”
“Yep, that’s us. I’d say we’ll be tied up at dock in about an hour. I’m sure glad to be home.”
“I thought so—these new binocs are awesome! I’m on the bridge looking right at you guys. Can you see me?”
Brock picked up his binoculars from the dash and scanned the bridge. “What are you doing up there on a busy holiday? Does your mom know where you are?”
“Mom said if I wore my helmet I could wait up here—I’m standing just past the on-ramp by my bike. I’m waving… see? It’s safe, there’s lots of other people up here too.”
Brock set his glasses back on the counter as he turned the helm to avoid a rolling wave. “Ah, OK then. Hey, I should be back in time to pick you and Mom up for some lunch—is she working at the terminal this morning?”
“Yeah, she’s down at the kiosk right now. I can see her through… Wh—what’s going on?” …Dad?”
A jolt slammed the bridge where Evie stood, knocking her away from the handrail. Her bike fell over onto its side and rattled against the pavement. A noise, like the roar of a speeding train, filled the air. People on the bridge fell or knelt to the ground as the shaking rumble increased. “Daddy! What’s happening?” Evie shouted into the radio, “Everything’s moving!”
Brock stared out his window to see the bridge sway back and forth—its middle sections crumbled into the river. “Evie! Evie—stay where you are! Do not move—do you hear me?”
“Dad—it’s coming apart! Daddy—it’s an earthquake!”
Brock slowed Nomad’s speed, steering the boat toward shore. His two deckhands ran into the wheelhouse. One of them shouted, “Look at the city! Jesus Christ—look at the hills!”
The cliffs above Astoria began to move, trees toppled onto roofs and took out telephone lines. The roar of the quake was deafening. All at once, a large cloud of dirt mushroomed skyward as an entire neighborhood sheared off the hillside, collapsing onto homes below. The noise of the earthquake was augmented by the sounds of buildings and vehicles crashing into the waterfront. The grinding sound of earth increased, echoing across the river and opposite shoreline.
Brock’s attention was on the remaining span of bridge where his daughter gripped the railing. “Evie, are you there—you OK?” From Brock’s position, he saw the ramp tear away from the bridge, cars, bicycles and pedestrians were hurled into the rushing water beneath. “Dear God. This is the one—this has gotta be the big one.”
Evie’s trembling voice emitted from the mic in his hand. “Daddy? What should I do? I can’t get down. I’m so scared.”
“You hold on tight Evie. You hold on very tight… and pray—you hear me?” Tears rolled down Brock’s face as he spoke.
“Uh… Hey, Brock, what’s happening?” His first mate asked.
Nomad rocked violently and loud clanging reverberated from its steel hull. The crew grabbed onto counters and bulkheads as the vessel slammed about. Brock looked out the wing-door as chunks of concrete and debris hurtled toward them. Suddenly, Nomad began to move backward as the current’s speed increased. “What in the hell?” He throttled up and tried to fight the current, but his boat made no headway. Then with a resounding thud, its lead keel settled onto the muddy river bottom. He laid the mic on the dash and climbed out the port door. Nomad leaned into the mud as dirty water swirled all around them. There was no way to move the boat—the mighty Columbia River was now below his propeller. He looked around—ships and other vessels lay drunkenly along the riverbed. The earthquake’s tremors shook the muddy current like a blender. Holy mother of God.
Evie fell to the pavement, closed her eyes and grabbed the bars with all her might. The sounds of screams and asphalt crumbling could barely be heard over the intense rumble of the quake. The bridge pillar upon which she sat swung back and forth; cars skidded across the two lanes. Evie felt the binoculars slide off her lap and she opened her eyes just long enough to grab them. As she looked up she saw a huge fireball on the pier, right behind the cruise ship. The fuel dock exploded as the waterfront fell six feet toward the water. Pipes b
urst and sent geysers of fluid and steam shooting above rooftops. Evie grasped the rail with one hand and tried to steady her binoculars, scanning the dock for any sign of her mother. The kiosk and HighTower office building were obscured in smoke. The radio beeped and she heard her father’s worried voice.
“Evie—Evie are you there? Please God, be there, Evie.”
The bridge segment pitched violently forward and Evie gasped. One of the pedestrians nearby was thrown off the side, Evie watched her land on the rocks below. She placed the binoculars in her lap with her free hand, then reached for the radio—still gripping the railing. “Daddy, people are dying! I’m afraid the bridge is going to break apart! Help me!”
“Honey, I can’t get off of the boat. We’re stuck here. I love you—you know that right?”
“Daddy… help me!”
“Listen Evie—listen to me! You hold onto the handrails of that bridge and you don’t budge—you don’t move one inch. Do you hear?”
“Y... y... yes, I get it,” Evie cried as she spoke. “Dad—I love you.”
“Oh Evie…” Brock removed his thumb from the speaker button as a racking sob escaped from his mouth. He paused, regaining his composure before he pressed it again. “You’re my brave girl and you’re going to be alright. You’ll find your mom after this and both of you will get up the hill—OK?”
“OK Dad.”
Brock heaved a sigh. He looked over at the waterfront and noticed the flames near the cruise ship. “Evie, hey Evie—can you see the cruise terminal from your location.”
“Daddy—I can’t see Mom. There’s too much smoke down there. Do you think she got away?”
Even through the radio’s tinny speaker, Evie heard the strain in her father’s voice as he replied, “Sure she did, hon’. They’re all safe inside the terminal, don’t worry about Mom. She’ll know what to do.”
Sea of a Thousand Words Page 5
