Glass Eels, Shattered Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  “You can’t be undah that thing forever.”

  The man had a good point. Draped across the bow, my back was already complaining. I needed a plan, and I needed it pronto.

  Hoping for a flash of inspiration, I looked to the side and spotted a scuba tank strapped to the ladder leading up to the platform. Could I use a tank of compressed air to create a diversion?

  A ladder was an odd place to secure a dive tank. I guessed that keeping the tank there made it easy for whoever checked on the mussels to jump in the water, attach a regulator, wiggle on the tank, secure their dive mask, and take a quick look at the mussel lines. Of course, that meant I had easy access to the tank as well.

  I backed the kayak out from the raft, aimed for the ladder, and was under the platform in a flash. Shu, thank goodness, didn’t appear to notice my movements. Using the dive knife I always store in the reachable hatch right behind my seat, I cut the tank loose and silently promised the raft owner I would replace it.

  Returning the knife to the hatch, I brushed the wooden kayak paddle strapped on the deck. My paddle was made of carbon fiber, and that made it an excellent lightning rod.

  Lucky thing I had a wooden backup one.

  Sea kayaks aren’t designed to transport scuba tanks. Obviously, I couldn’t go very far with the bulky tank balanced on my bow.

  “Far isn’t the goal. Distraction is,” I mumbled.

  I tucked the tank under the bow’s bungee straps, aimed the kayak for a shallow shoal ahead, and paddled toward it. The bungees needed to secure the tank for just a minute or two. I didn’t need to go far—five or six good strokes—but getting there and back without Shu seeing me was key to my plan.

  Sliding to a stop, I released the tank from the cords, lowered it off the side, opened the valve, and let go. Happy to see large bubbles boil up to the surface, I quickly back-paddled to the platform and slid underneath.

  48

  Once more, Shu did not appear to be aware that I had left my hiding place. Maybe he and the guy operating the powerboat were watching a sky darkening by the minute. Whatever the reason, I was extremely grateful and pledged angels above I would do an especially good deed in the next few days.

  A minute passed, then another and another. Flattened across my bow under a rocking, dripping, wooden platform among swinging ropes covered with mussels, I began to wonder how long I could hold out.

  A crack of thunder turned the tables. Over the slap-slap of the water I heard someone—probably the powerboat captain—yell. The motors came to life and the boat chugged its way around the platform, aimed for the island, and sped up. Maybe the pair thought I had paddled to the island and escaped.

  Whatever the reason, the craft was heading for the area where I had dumped the scuba tank. Wondering if bubbles meant a sea kayaker was in the shallows, would the pair stop to check out my ruse? Deciding not to wait to find out, I slid out from under the platform, grabbed my paddle, and made for shore as fast as I possibly could.

  Out there on the water, I had more to worry about than two guys in a powerboat. As I hid beneath the raft, the storm had turned the calm sea into a gray-green, churning maelstrom. Roaring wind threw rainwater and ocean spray in my face. Bucking breaking waves, the kayak slapped down on the surface and slowed my escape. Again and again, the boat tried to swing into the wind and out to sea as I fought to steer it toward shore.

  But I had handled wild seas before and knew I could do it again. The men in the big powerboat were my real worry.

  Focused on staying upright, I didn’t notice the speedboat until it was nearly on me. They came from the side, an alabaster specter against black sky lit by bolts of lightning. Oblivious to the rain and sea spray, Shu stood at the railing of the aft deck. He grinned a “gotcha” smirk, and I hated him for it.

  Raising his arm in triumph, he hollered, “You in big trouble now!”

  There was no time to think, and I didn’t. Acting on instinct, I grabbed one end of my paddle, whipped the paddle behind my head, and hurled it at Shu. Still smirking, the man caught the paddle with his raised hand, held it straight up, and yelled, “Hah!”

  To be as low on the water as possible, I flattened myself across the kayak’s bow and turned my head toward the powerboat to keep an eye on it.

  The lightning bolt hit the instruments on the cabin roof and the raised paddle at the same instant. Shu screamed, dropped the paddle, and flipped overboard. Now silent and aimed at the island, the boat slid by. Twisting around, I released the wooden paddle from behind my seat and sped toward the shore.

  I spotted Ted’s yellow slicker before I could tell who was wearing it. As the kayak approached the beach, he waded in and guided the boat into shallower water. Usually I can slide out of the cockpit on my own without much effort, but this time shaky legs made for a clumsy exit. So I was grateful for his help.

  Ted dragged the empty kayak up to the dunes, came back down to the water’s edge where I’d remained, and embraced me. With rain pelting from above and waves splashing our legs, we just stood there in silence for a long minute.

  Finally, Ted stepped back, and together we walked to higher ground. “My god, Mara, I really thought I’d lost you. It was hard to see much from here, but that flash of lightning lit both that white powerboat and your kayak like a spotlight. I was sure you’d been hit and was amazed to see you paddling through that maelstrom toward shore.”

  “Ted, I really am sorry you were worried, but you weren’t alone. Never, ever do I want to go through anything like that again. I did learn something about lightning though.”

  We reached the narrow path leading up to my lawn. Over his shoulder, Ted called out, “I’m sure you’re going to tell me, Mara, so go ahead.”

  “I learned that carbon-fiber paddles invite lightning strikes. So from now on I’ll use a wooden paddle if there’s a hint of a storm and have one as a spare every time I go out.”

  Reaching level ground, he asked, “How far were you from the powerboat when the lightning struck it?”

  I stepped up next to him and looked out over the water. “At least thirty feet. That’s supposed to be far enough. And I flattened myself against the bow to lower my profile.”

  Ted said he would call Marine Patrol to report the incident while I cleaned up and got into dry clothes. After an extra-long hot shower, I padded into the kitchen in my flannel pj’s and said, “Whatever you’re making, it smells great.”

  Ted walked over to the stove and lifted the lid of my wok. “Chicken curry with lots of vegetables over rice. Comfort food. Do you want something to drink?”

  “Maybe just some herbal tea,” I said. “I’ll make it.”

  It felt awfully good to stand next to Ted at the stove, cozy in my flannels, especially given the events of the afternoon. Maybe this living together thing was going to work out after all.

  Ted interrupted the thought. “Marine Patrol is going out to look for the powerboat and dead bodies. They want to talk with you, of course, but unless they call, it can wait until tomorrow. Guess you should phone Lieutenant Dunn and tell him what happened to Shu.”

  Standing on tiptoe, I kissed Ted on the cheek. “I’d rather be right here with you, but I do need to contact Dunn.”

  I called the lieutenant and tried to describe the afternoon’s events as succinctly and clearly as possible. Doing both wasn’t easy.

  “Let me get this straight,” Dunn said. “You were out on the water in your kayak, Shu was in a powerboat, and he died because he was holding your kayak paddle and lightning struck him. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes. The bolt got him and he went overboard. I assume the captain died as well because the whole boat was hit, but you’d have to check with Marine Patrol.”

  “And when he was hit, Shu was holding the paddle high the air?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “The paddle is made of carbon fiber. The boat was about to run into me, so I threw the paddle on instinct. In my defense, lightning zapped the electronics on the
cabin roof at the same time, so I assume he would’ve died anyway. I was far enough away that I didn’t get zapped as well.”

  “And thank goodness for that, of course,” Dunn said. “Let’s be clear, I’m not criticizing you, Mara. Just trying to understand what happened. It’s a remarkable story, but the bottom line is that a brutal criminal is dead. The man is responsible for a dozen murders.”

  49

  The following evening, Connor and Harvey invited Ted, me, and Angelo for dinner. Harvey described it as “a chance for all of us to get together,” but I knew better. They actually wanted a chance to press me about Shu, the lightning bolt, and how I avoided getting fried.

  The questions didn’t come until we had finished dessert and were comfortably settled in the living room.

  “Give us the brief version first, Mara,” Harvey said.

  “I’ll try,” I answered. “But brief’s going to be difficult.”

  And so I ran through the series of events—how I paddled out past the raft, watched the powerboat speed toward me, hid under the platform, dropped the bubbling scuba tank, tried to paddle away, noticed the fast-approaching thunderstorm, came face to face with Shu who mocked me, hurled the paddle at him, watched the lightning strike him and the powerboat, and paddled to shore with the wooden Greenland paddle.

  Understandably confused, they asked questions one by one.

  Why did you think the tank’s bubbles would be a diversion? (Angelo)

  Did you know ahead of time how far lightning travels through seawater? (Harvey)

  When the lightning hit Shu, did you feel anything? (Connor)

  And that was just for starters.

  After nearly an hour, Harvey took pity on me. “I think Mara has probably had enough. Let’s switch to a lighter topic. Connor?”

  Connor took the bait, as it were, and described in great detail the previous day’s fishing trip with Angelo. For a change, I was happy to hear that mackerel worked but their lures didn’t, what they managed to catch, plus who else was fishing in Spruce Harbor and what they caught.

  When Connor finished, Angelo didn’t elaborate with his own take on the day. He was seated on a wooden chair by the fireplace, and I realized that he hadn’t said much all evening. I caught his eye, tipped my head, and scrunched up my nose—a “What’s up with you?” ploy he often teased me about.

  Running a hand through tight curls of white hair, he made an Angelo-type statement. “Wildlife crimes are rarely prosecuted successfully. Something like one percent result in serious prison penalties. Lightning strikes are even rarer than that. More people are stuck in Florida than any other state, but even there the odds are about one in a million. So the possibility that justice would be served to a wildlife trafficker by lightning is infinitely small. That it happened is truly remarkable.”

  Nobody said anything for a long minute.

  Harvey broke the silence. “Mark Twain wrote about lightning, didn’t he?”

  Angelo nodded. “Twain said, ‘Thunder is good, thunder is impressive. But it is lightning that does all the work.’”

  “Well,” Connor said, “that’s a fitting take on what happened.”

  On the way home afterward, seated in the passenger seat of Ted’s truck, I said, “Angelo seemed pretty quiet tonight, don’t you think?”

  “He was,” Ted said. “And I’m pretty sure you know why.”

  I waited until he turned off Route One onto the dirt road that ended up at my house. Looking to the side, I stared into gloom of the pine forest. “He worries about me, and I give him good reason to.”

  After we bounced along in silence for a minute, Ted said, “You don’t do it on purpose, Mara. He knows that, and so do I. But you get into more than your share of, um, predicaments. It’s hard for those of us waiting on shore for you.”

  That night I couldn’t fall asleep. I finally gave up around one a.m., slipped out of bed, and went downstairs into the kitchen. Drinking hot milk with a bit of maple syrup sometimes helped me sleep. So I heated a cup of milk in the microwave, added a spoonful of syrup, padded into the living room, and sipped the concoction by the window with the best water view. The three-quarter moon threw a long shaft of yellow light across the rippled surface. A reassuring scene, and I literally drank it in.

  Ted’s words—“It’s hard for those of us waiting on shore for you”—echoed in my mind. It certainly wasn’t a new complaint, but for some reason its simplicity really hit home. I remembered walking up to the “Waiting on the Shore” statue on Ireland’s west coast, a tribute to wives, mothers, and daughters left behind. Anguish forever etched on her face, the woman in bronze reaches out to the sea for the one who is gone forever.

  I certainly knew the anguish of standing alone on shore, knowing those closest to me would never come home. Aged nineteen, I waited on MOI’s pier the day Intrepid docked after a Caribbean research cruise. Three weeks earlier, I had waved at the departing ship as my parents, Carlos and Bridget, waved back from the aft deck. Days before the return voyage, they died in a research sub wedged under a coral outcrop. I had been informed, of course, but knew Mom and Dad would want me to welcome Intrepid back nevertheless.

  What was the lesson here? Busy oceanographers doing their research, Carlos and Bridget certainly hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, let alone me. Likewise, paddling off to enjoy a few hours in my kayak, I had no intention of worrying anyone. All the same, I had done just that and could have prevented the whole bad business.

  In addition to wearing the right gear and paddling waters they can handle, sea kayakers absolutely must pay attention to one thing—the weather. Not far from shore, I noticed cumulus clouds building high into the atmosphere. Without my weather radio, I couldn’t check to see if a storm was on the way. At that point the sea state was calm, so I didn’t need to abandon the trip. But I certainly could have paddled along the coast, close to home and shelter.

  Next time I visited Angelo, I needed to apologize for being careless and describe my plan for being safe on the water in the future.

  Still holding the mug, I swirled the last of the milk and finished it off.

  50

  In the morning, I waited until Ted had finished a full cup of coffee before describing my intention to apologize to Angelo.

  Ted’s reaction was lukewarm. “Oh,” he said. “Good idea.”

  “That’s it?” I answered. “Good idea? I thought you’d be really pleased.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m really happy, and Angelo will be too. But I need to tell you something, and that’s distracting me.”

  Frowning, I fell back against my chair. “When someone says, ‘I need to tell you something,’ it’s never good.”

  “Actually, it is good, for me scientifically, that is.”

  “Your NOAA grant got funded?”

  He beamed. “It sure did. All of it.”

  I clapped my hands. “That’s terrific, Ted. Well done! We’ll have to celebrate with champagne tonight.”

  “Thanks, but there’s a catch. NOAA really liked the idea of using autonomous high-speed gliders to study ocean warming, but they don’t think Intrepid is a good research ship for the work.”

  “I assume they recommended an alternative?”

  “Yes. Two of the WHOI ships down in Woods Hole.”

  I shrugged. “Guess that makes sense. The other researchers on the proposal are from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. So what’s the problem?”

  “It’s an eight-hour drive down to Woods Hole. I can’t exactly commute.”

  Ted’s “I need to talk to you about something” finally hit home. “Ah. You’ll stay down there.”

  “Not all the time, but we’ll be using WHOI research vessels for the glider research. Thank goodness they provide housing. Finding a reasonably priced place to live on Cape Cod during the summer would be pretty hard.”

  “So when will this happen?”

  “That’s why I’m telling you all this,” he said. “I leave in two weeks
for the first cruise. It’ll be a short trip.”

  I gasped. “Two weeks? What about your work here?”

  “I’ve already spoken with Dr. Dixon and explained that I have a post-doc who can run my lab, no problem, when I’m away. Dixon has given me a leave of absence.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Frederick Dixon, MOI’s director, was a decent guy well known for his consistent support of researchers and staff. It did irritate me that Ted consulted with Dixon before even telling me what was going on.

  Actually, irritated was too mild a description for what I was feeling. Something between infuriated and hurt was more like it.

  Ted correctly read the expression on my face. “You’re not happy about all this, Mara.”

  “Getting a big grant like that funded is a very big deal. Of course I’m happy about that. But we’re supposed to be a team, and it feels lousy that you spoke with Dixon before letting me know about any of this.”

  Standing, Ted said, “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I wanted to have everything settled before I told you.” He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I’ve got to run. There’s an online conference meeting with all the scientists involved in this project. We can talk about this again tonight.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Standing, I pushed my chair so hard it tipped over backward. Then, mumbling, I paced the kitchen floor.

  “So much for the idea of living together. And here I was feeling guilty about being careless sea kayaking. Good lord. Am I a dope, or what?”

  Harvey answered on the second ring. “Hi, Mara, what’s up?”

  It all came out in a tumble. When I had finished, Harvey suggested we meet for coffee at the Neap Tide Café. “I’ll get a table where nobody will bother us. I can’t guarantee that in my lab or office.”

  As usual, the Neap Tide was busy, but true to her word, Harvey had scored a quiet table for two in the back corner.

  I had just shrugged off my fleece jacket and was seated when Sally walked over with a steaming pot of coffee. Filling my mug, she said, “Mara Tusconi, I haven’t seen you in here for a couple of weeks. We’ve got some real nice blueberry muffins. Can I get you one, dear?”