by Tyler Keevil
We navigated without a GPS map, depth sounder, or radar. This wasn’t as difficult or dangerous as it had been at night but it still presented risks. It meant Jake had to act as our navigator. After breakfast I’d shown him the basics of charting and had set him to tracking our progress. By using the compass and sliderule, Jake could mark our position and plot a course. We bickered frequently about the direction to go – as was our way – but for the most part it worked well. Jake spent the morning hunched over the wheelhouse table, pencil and ruler in hand, making adjustments.
As Port Townsend retreated behind us, he told me, ‘You’re off course, to the west.’
‘Ferry up ahead.’
It was the Coupeville vessel: a little two-deck affair.
‘Well, tell me next time,’ he said.
‘All right.’
He made an adjustment, muttering about my skills as a helmsman.
‘You ever been this way before?’ he asked.
‘We only made it to the San Juans.’
We were about two thirds of the way to our destination. We didn’t have to cross any more open water, but Puget Sound posed a different challenge. The sound is this long, maze-like series of channels, bays, and estuaries, running north–south for at least a hundred miles, past Everett, Seattle, and Tacoma. At the southernmost tip sits Olympia, and the Olympic mountain range. Getting there with functioning navigation equipment would have been fairly straightforward, but navigating by chart required more caution and concentration.
Then of course we faced the problem of docking and unloading the horse once we arrived, and not being seen while we did it. The best way to go about that, and the various options at our disposal, were the cause of much debate and bickering as we journeyed south, but it was a dead-end argument because so much depended on Maria.
‘I’ll have to phone her,’ Jake said.
‘You threw away the phone.’
‘I threw away the Delaneys’ phone. I still got my own phone.’
‘And her number, apparently.’
He ignored that, and said, ‘I’ll tell her to come meet us.’
‘She’ll be surprised to hear we’re on a damned boat.’
‘I’ll explain.’
‘We won’t be able to cruise right into Olympia.’
‘Their ranch ain’t in Olympia. It’s outside of town.’
I hadn’t thought of that, but of course it made sense. Nobody has a ranch in the middle of a city.
‘The thing to do,’ I said, ‘is find a little isolated wharf or dock, in a secluded bay, that has vehicle access.’
‘I hear you. Like the one in Port Moody, where we used to go swimming.’
‘We can moor up at night, when we won’t be seen. Unless you’re aiming to ride the horse down to the ranch, we’ll need a trailer to transport her. Will Maria have a trailer?’
‘Don’t rightly know.’
‘Better find out, quick.’
He went down onto the front deck to call her. I kept an eye on him, out there. He held up his phone, searching for signal like a dowser feeling his way towards water. He found it eventually, and must have got hold of her, because he began to pace back and forth, talking and gesturing, in that animated way of his. Behind him the sound looked like a wide grey road, leading us south, and I had what you might call a premonition: I felt very confident we would at least get there, though what might transpire once we did was anybody’s guess.
When Jake was done talking he returned to the wheelhouse and pushed open the door and blew on his hands in a jocular manner and made loud, unnecessary comments about how cold it was outside. By that I knew right away that something was amiss, or not right.
‘What did she say?’ I asked.
‘She has a trailer. She’ll meet us. We just got to let her know the place.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘You had quite the chat.’
He reached for his coffee, and drained it before answering. ‘My picture is all over the news, from that gas station.’
I’d actually forgotten. Out there on the boat, we’d been so far removed from all that, and focused entirely on each immediate obstacle that came our way. It’s one of the greatest illusions of being at sea: it can make life on land, and all its accompanying ills, seem distant, trivial, and inconsequential. But of course that couldn’t last. In a way the feeling I had then was akin to how I felt at the close of every herring season: the isolated world we had created on the boat was coming to an end.
‘I guess we reckoned on that,’ I said.
‘You’re not in the shot – in case you’re worried about it.’
‘I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m fine. I’ll be fine.’
‘What about Maria? She fine, too?’
Jake took a deep breath and exhaled, puffing out his cheeks like a blowfish.
‘She’s not in a good place.’
‘No shit. She’s practically a moll.’
‘What the hell is that?’
‘You know. Like the girlfriend of a gangster. A gun moll.’
‘Don’t call her that.’
‘You gonna defend her honour?’
‘I don’t know what you have against her. You used to worship her.’
‘She ain’t the same girl.’
‘How do you know? Seen her lately?’
‘I ain’t seen her for years. Not since you got put away. Same as you. That’s when she started hanging out with posers like Delaney, fucking around, really going crazy.’
‘Sure – when you were supposed to be looking out for her.’
‘I tried, man. But …’
I shook my head. My hangover was crawling over me and thinking about those times always made me sick, nauseous, shaky. It had all been such a mess, and he and I’d had the same argument – or versions of it – dozens of times. But Jake wasn’t finished. He told me Maria had written him a letter. It had to be a letter, since (according to her) Delaney was a total control freak and kept track of her cellphone – the calls and texts – and wouldn’t have liked her contacting Jake.
‘Was this before or after they asked you to do the job?’
‘What does it matter?’
I was thinking about what he’d revealed, back in Vancouver: about Maria needing help, and that her recommending Jake for the job had maybe been a way of asking for it.
‘It might not.’
‘It was before, okay?’
He told me that in the letter she’d said she worried about what she’d got herself into, and also worried about her daughter. The life they led was no life for a little girl. That gave me pause. I’d almost forgotten about Maria’s kid. After we’d broken apart, I’d heard about her being pregnant, and having a daughter, but by then I hadn’t been in touch with her.
‘Whose kid is it? Delaney’s?’
‘Maria’s only been with him a couple years. The kid’s older than that.’
‘Like how old?’
‘I don’t know. I guess she’d be seven or eight, now.’
‘Maybe it’s yours. Maybe it’s your love-child. Little baby Jake.’
‘Fuck you. I was locked up when she got knocked up.’
‘I’m only joking.’
‘I know what you’re doing. And I’m saying fuck you.’
‘Fuck you too.’ After a beat, I added, ‘And the horse you came in on.’
A lot of what I said about Maria – both on the boat and before – I regret now. Of course, the way I was acting at the time (calling her a gangster’s moll and making ill-judged jokes about her daughter) was based on the little I knew, and assumptions I had made in that regard. I couldn’t be sure if Maria had recommended Jake for the job because he was an obvious patsy, or because – as he seemed to believe – she actually did need his help, and had seen this as an opportunity to get him down there. I suspected the former, and that Jake was deluded. As it turned out, the situation was far more complicated than t
hat, and the same could be said of Maria’s motivations. But that’s always the case. We hardly ever behave in a manner that might be considered reasonable or rational, especially when love is involved, and family.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The southeast part of Whidbey ISLAND (which isn’t much of an island, seeing as a two-lane bridge connects it to the mainland) forms a point called Double Bluff, so-called because the peninsula ends in a camel-hump shape. On its southside, it encloses Useless Bay and Double Bluff park. I’d had that in mind as the place to give Shenzao a decent clean.
As we rounded the point, I got out the binoculars to assess the shoreline. The centre of the bay looked to be more developed than I’d expected: it contained a man-made lagoon, including a hotel and holiday resort, neither of which appeared on Albert’s charts. But near our position, on this side of the bay, lay a stretch of parkland without any docks or dwellings: just a long swatch of grey beach and the rock face of the cliffs. There were no people in sight and no boats near us. The mid-morning waters were calm and it seemed a good place to stop. I dropped anchor about a hundred yards offshore and Jake went in to untether Shenzao.
We worked together to lead her out, with Jake holding the reins taut and me keeping a grip on her halter. Once we had her on deck she didn’t seem skittish or anxious so much as eager and full of beans. She stamped her foot impatiently, and shook out her mane. She’d been cooped up in that filthy galley for thirty-six hours, whereas normally (so Jake said) she was accustomed to a morning warm-up, her daily run, and a cooldown with the hotwalker.
She tried to turn, and Jake held the reins. ‘Easy girl,’ he said.
‘Lively.’
‘All those oats.’
We tethered her to the powerblock for the seine handling crane, which seemed safe enough, and ran the hose. The gun nozzle had a dial you could twist to adjust the stream of water, from a steady jet to a soft fan. Jake set it to fan: he’d cleaned horses before and said it was best to start with the hooves, so she could get used to the sensations and the temperature. When the spray hit her there she stood steady and didn’t seem bothered at all. He moved up her forelegs slowly. Beneath the water the crusty muck and grime melted away.
I leaned against the seine winch and watched. My brain felt all cotton-balled from the booze of the previous night and I wasn’t as sharp as I might have been. The cold sea breeze helped some. I lit one of Jake’s Du Mauriers and looked over towards the bay. I was in such a stupor that at first I didn’t think much about the horses I saw trotting along the beach in the distance: about half a dozen of them. They cantered along in single file, all mounted by confident riders. Such a calming and pleasant sight, at that hour of morning.
Then, I course, I understood the problem.
I flicked my smoke at the water, and said, ‘Jake.’
‘What?’
‘We got to get her back inside.’
He looked at me in irritation. ‘I’ve barely started yet.’
I pointed. For the time being, the deckhouse shielded Shenzao, but they were riding closer at a good clip and pretty soon she would be in the eyeline of the riders. I assumed they had come from the resort, for a little leisurely ride on the beach.
‘Shit,’ Jake said.
He got hold of the reins and tried to turn her around. But Shenzao, she liked being on deck just fine. She nickered and leaned back, in that ornery way of hers, as if to say: like hell you’re putting me in that cooped-up, dirty, grimy, stinking, no-account galley again.
‘Come on, girl,’ I said. I put my shoulder to her haunch – my old trick. No luck.
At that point those horses cantered into view along the beach. We panicked and started really hauling on her, trying to force her inside. That might have contributed some to what happened. But also, at that point, one of those horses on the beach just up and brayed. I don’t know if it had seen our girl, or if it was simply braying for the sheer joy of being out and about. But either way Shenzao heard. She raised her head, looking right at them.
You could see it coming.
She swung her body around to face the stern, hauling Jake clean off his feet. I jumped in and did something typically ineffectual: I grabbed her round the neck in a clumsy bear hug, to which she didn’t take very kindly. She reared. She drew right up on her hind legs, like you see cowboy horses do in films. Jake lost his grip on the reins and I got thrown backwards into the seine winch – cracking my head so hard I saw flashbulbs.
I’m not sure if Shenzao knew what she was doing, or if she took the water to be a stretch of big blue-green field. Possibly she recognized it as water and simply didn’t give a hoot. She’d had enough of us and the boat and she saw her kind over there on the beach and she just reckoned she wanted to go join them. She took four or five steps towards the stern, her hooves clip-clopping on the teak deck, and leapt right over the gunnel, tucking in her forelegs like a showhorse clearing a gate. She seemed to hang above the water, suspended, and for a moment she resembled her namesake: this morning ghost, floating before us.
She landed with a concussive splash and an explosion of water – so much that it backwashed over the deck – while Jake and I stood there, just completely aghast.
We rushed to the stern and peered over. Shenzao did not flounder at all but swam easily and diligently, her legs visible beneath the surface, bent by refraction, churning away like a paddlewheel. She’d gone under when she landed and her wet mane stuck flat to her neck – almost like some kind of skunk-tailed mullet. She headed towards the spot on shore where the riding party had slowed to a halt, presumably to gawk at this madness.
Jake swore and cursed in the way you do when you are beyond the realm of rational thought – just this long line of expletives, spat out in quick succession. Then he started taking off his rain slicker.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Going in after her.’
‘Like hell. What will that do?’
‘I can follow her to shore.’
It wasn’t far. But the temperature had to be near zero.
‘You’ll freeze your nuts off.’
‘Better that than lose her.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’
He kept on stripping, right down to his boxers.
‘Figure something out,’ he said.
Then he let loose with this wild, lunatic cry and leapt headfirst over the gunnel. He came up gasping and sputtering but I’ve got to give him credit: he broke right into a front crawl and punched his way through the water. Shenzao had a twenty-yard head start. On shore, the riders walked their horses down towards the water, facing us. They could see the whole shebang, all right. One pointed at Jake. Another seemed to be holding up a camera, or a phone.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ I said.
I started the winch to haul in the anchor, which cranked in laboriously, one chain-link at a time. Before it had even finished I bounded up to the wheelhouse, punched the ignition, leaned on the throttle, and wheeled the boat around. At first the Lady chugged real slow – because of all that extra drag – but when the anchor cleared the water she picked up steam.
There looked to be some kind of dock or wharf about halfway down the beach, and I headed in that direction. I couldn’t just steer the boat into the shallows, and risk running her aground. I moved away from Jake and the horse at about a forty-five-degree angle, so the three of us formed a triangle. I drew roughly even with Shenzao and, looking over, saw her head rocking as she plodded through the water. Jake followed behind, maybe losing a little ground but powering stubbornly after her. It had become a very ludicrous three-way race.
Before Shenzao reached shore, I reached the dock. Only it wasn’t actually a dock. It was a damned log jam: just a bunch of big old fir trees, lashed together, waiting for pick-up by a tug. But it was all I had. So I pulled alongside, cut the engine, and looped a single tie-line to the nearest log. By then, the horse had found her footing in the shallows. Further up the beach, a few riders dismou
nted. I had sense enough to grab myself a disguise: I took one of Evelyn’s tea towels and tied that around my face like a bandana, to hide my identity.
Then I made my way to shore, which proved mighty difficult. The logs wobbled and had a tendency to turn, rotating back and forth, in a way that would have been comical if it wasn’t so damn dangerous. Tottering along, I held my arms out like a tightrope walker, and somehow I avoided going under or breaking an ankle. I reached shore, jumped onto the sand, and sprinted pell-mell down the beach.
Up ahead, Shenzao had gone to join the other horses. One of the riders had taken hold of her reins. I hustled up, panting, just as Jake sloshed his way out of the shallows. He did this very casually, as if it was a perfectly normal day at the beach: wading out of the frigid water and right into the wintery air, dressed only in his plaid boxer shorts. He flicked his hair from his eyes and grinned: at me, at the riders, at the situation.
‘Thanks for tending to our horse, here,’ he said.
Most of the riders had dismounted. There were seven of them: all women dressed in jeans and winter jackets and riding boots, and also – oddly enough – pink tuques with the words ‘Kelly’s Hen Party’ stitched across them. The woman holding Shenzao’s reins had red hair and a pug nose and looked like she might be in charge. She looked pretty stern, anyway.
She said, ‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’
They were both good questions, and Jake considered them seriously.
‘I think I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Just cold. Our horse, see, she jumped overboard.’
I nodded. ‘She saw your horses and jumped overboard.’
The woman glanced over at me. I must have been a sight, with that damned tea towel wrapped around my face. The others began whispering and snickering among themselves.
‘We didn’t mean to disrupt your hen party,’ Jake said. ‘Are you Kelly?’
The woman blinked, wrongfooted. ‘I’m Brenda.’
