“I’ve got some extra foul-weather gear.” He rooted through a cupboard. “You’ll ruin those cowboy boots of yours, sliding around in the salt water. See if these fit.”
The anorak fit, but the Wellingtons were way too big. I said, “I think I better stick with my boots.”
“Suit yourself. Just be careful. Give me a hand with the rest of this stuff.”
It took me a few trips to get everything stowed below. Toby moved quickly and efficiently across the deck, seeming impervious to cold and sleet. When he finished, he beckoned toward the companionway.
’We’ll motor past the point there. Going straight into the wind like this, it would take us three times as long to sail. If the wind changes direction, we might motorsail.”
He squinted as icy spray gusted across the deck. “This could be rough. Think you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” He looked me up and down. “You feel bad, you can try going below. I don’t think that helps much, myself. You’re better here on deck where you can feel the wind. There’s life jackets there—”
He cocked his thumb at several orange vests and a life preserver. “Not that they’ll do you much good. You go overboard, you’ve got eight minutes before hypothermia kicks in. That’s how they train kids down at the yacht club—they throw ‘em in the harbor and toss ‘em a life preserver to help get ‘em to shore.”
“They get them back out, right?”
“That’s what the boat hook’s for.”
I huddled in the stern while Toby went below. After a few minutes I heard the rumble of the engine turning over. Smoke spewed across the water. Toby hopped back up on deck and stood beside me at the tiller as the Northern Sky nosed away from the pier. I tugged the watchcap over my ears and looked across the harbor to the beach.
The men stood in that same small group. A few watched us pull out. The others had turned to watch four dark figures walking slowly down the road from the crest of the island. Two of the figures carried a stretcher. Behind them walked a heavyset man in a black overcoat, and a tall lanky figure. Ray Provenzano.
And Gryffin.
“Look,” I said.
Toby turned. He ran a hand across his brow then raised it in a wave.
On shore, the tall figure stopped. He lifted his head and gazed across the water then slowly lifted his hand. His voice came to us, garbled by wind and the throb of the engine.
“What’d he say?” I asked Toby.
“‘Be careful.’”
I watched as the figures on shore grew smaller and smaller, until they were no bigger than the rocks and, at last, became indistinguishable from them, disappearing completely as we rounded the point.
21
You can get used to anything, even hanging. Even cold. Still, I thought longingly of the little woodstove I’d seen down in the Northern Sky’s cabin. When I asked Toby about it, he looked at me dubiously.
“Think you can get a fire going? It’s tricky. Time you did, we’d probably be there.”
I reluctantly agreed. We’d left the point behind us. Now Paswegas was a green-black hump, like a breaching whale. There was no real chop, but a lot of long swells. It didn’t make me feel sick, more like being in a gray uneasy dream that I couldn’t quite wake from. Now and then a big wave would catch us sideways, flinging frigid water over the bow. I started counting these to see if there was a pattern, and yeah, every third wave was big, and every twelfth wave was really big. I helped Toby pull up the dodger, a small awning that covered the cockpit, and ducked under it as another wave slapped the boat. It wasn’t much protection, but it kept the worst of the spray from us, and some of the wind. My feet were swollen inside my boots. My face felt as though it had hardened like cement.
Churning sea thrust against roiling sky. The sky pushed back. We fought both of them. A few gulls beat feebly against the clouds. I went below and got my camera, returned to the relative shelter of the dodger and did my best to keep my balance while I shot that unearthly expanse of gray and white and sickly green. Islets rose from the water, some little more than big black rocks, others crowned with salt-withered spruce or birch. I saw tangles of bone white driftwood on rocky beaches, and dead seabirds, creosote-blackened pilings ripped from God knows where. I thought of photos I had seen of Iceland, of volcanic islands rising from the sea.
Who would ever live here? I thought. And answered: I could.
“Cass.” I capped my camera and put it back beneath my jacket. “Come here, I’ll teach you how to keep a heading. The currents are okay for the moment.”
He showed me how to read the compass, its face tilting beneath a transparent plastic dome; how to hold the tiller steady.
“I’m going below for a second.” He raised his voice above the wind and pointed. “That’s where we’re headed—”
A long black shape skimmed the broken surface of the water. “That’s Tolba. We’re sailing a line of sight—not sailing, motoring. So you just keep heading in that direction, okay?”
I minded the tiller while he went below. It was like fighting with a live stick, but I figured Toby wouldn’t leave if he didn’t think I could hold my own. He returned a minute later with two coffee mugs, a liter of Moxie and a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum.
“See if this warms you up.”
He poured Moxie into each mug, added a slug of rum, and handed one to me. I took a sip and nearly spat it out.
Toby looked hurt. “You should try it with a little squeeze of fresh lime. Nothing finer.”
I fished beneath my anorak until I found my Jack Daniel’s. Toby finished off his mug and set it down. The deck was treacherous with spray, but he moved easily, keeping the tiller steady. The freezing mist had turned to a fine, steady rain. After a few minutes, Toby shook his head.
“We’re dragging,” he yelled above the wind. “The dinghy. Here, I’ll need you to take over again—”
He opened a storage box and removed a bleach bottle that had been cut to make a scoop, turned and placed my hands on the tiller. “I’ve set it so we’re going into the wind now. That’ll slow us down while I bail. Keep that heading.”
He ducked out from the cockpit and headed toward the stern. I watched him lower himself down into the dinghy and begin bailing then turned my attention back to the tiller.
Ahead of us, Tolba Island rose against the mottled sky. It was like watching a photograph develop: bit by bit, details grew clear. The finely etched tips of spruce on the island’s heights; slashes of white that were ancient birches; a sweep of blood red stone that gave way to a pale, red-pocked strand; a granite pier projecting into the water.
It was big; far bigger than Paswegas.
I looked back to check on Toby.
He shouted, “How you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Almost done here! Hang on—”
Exhaustion seeped through me like another drug. My gut ached from coffee and speed and alcohol. If I crashed now, I’d be down for the count. I fingered the film canister in my pocket that held the stolen pills. I had enough speed to last me another day or two if I rationed it. I had the Percocet for when I needed to sleep. If I held off till I got back to Burnt Harbor, I could hit the road and get as far south as Bangor that night, find a Motel 6 and crash there. Not exactly deluxe accommodations, but better than the Lighthouse.
The Lighthouse…
I thought of that first night in Burnt Harbor, of Kenzie’s white face disappearing into the shadows, like a moth.