Island Bound

1

CHRIS COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. HERE HE WAS, JUST sprung from school and ready to cut loose, and instead he was bound for Fowlers Island, where his best friends would leave him to spend his only full week of freedom in total isolation. He had better things to do before starting his summer job at the Harbor View Inn. He ought to have his head examined.

He glanced back at Ledgeport. If someone was going to stop them and ask where they thought they were going, it had to be now. But everyone on the waterfront was used to the three boys taking off like this on a Sunday. No one took any notice of them.

The small workboat wasn’t designed for speed, but the boys could make it cover a lot of water. Of course they had to go slow and easy until they were clear of the harbor. But as soon as they headed into Grace Narrows, nothing but the old one-lunger engine could hold them back. Letting go like that usually made Chris feel good. But not today.

It had started last fall with the kind of boasting that so easily sets a trap. Even with three town boys against one from away, Chris and Andy and Eric had felt pressed to challenge Gary. And all because Gary had returned to his summer home bragging about the two nights he had spent alone on Brimstone Island.

Anyone could do that, the town boys had retorted. They didn’t need survival training either. Look at all the times Chris stayed out on one of the islands with his father tending sheep. Anyway, Brimstone was small. No one had ever lived on it in bygone days, so you wouldn’t meet up with old ghosts and that.

Ghosts? They believed in ghosts? Gary had laughed and laughed.

So one of them had mentioned the light that used to be seen on Fowlers Island on certain moonlit nights. Not the signal from the lighthouse that marked the treacherous ledges of the outer islands, but a low, faint flicker like a candle flame. Most of the old-timers hereabouts had glimpsed it at least once. Or else they knew someone who had. Anyway, they believed it, even if they didn’t all agree on what caused it or what it signified. Try staying way out on that island.

Gary had shrugged. He figured it was a lot easier spending a couple of nights on a big island where people used to live than on a wild, uninhabited island where you could hear the sea all around you no matter where you unrolled your sleeping bag. Besides, if a storm came up, there was always that lighthouse for shelter.

The lighthouse was out of bounds, the town boys replied. Anyway, its downstairs room was usually full of dead birds and bird crap. And maybe something else.

Gary had laughed again. None of that bothered him any. If one of the town boys went out there alone, he would, too. After all, he had made it through survival camp and passed his solo island experience. He knew about marking eggs in a nest to find out which were newly laid. He knew how to grind up burdock roots and which plants were edible raw.

He didn’t think he’d have any trouble getting permission from his folks to spend a few days on an island with a lighthouse. He assumed there would be a well. A gallon of water would be enough for a day or two, but not if a person stayed much longer. And they’d have to agree to certain rules, like no food handouts from outsiders and no raiding lobster traps, and only one box of matches. He’d go a day longer than any one of them on that island. No sweat.

Andy and Eric and Chris had each planned to be the one to outsurvive Gary until it became clear that no one’s family would put up with any such nonsense.

Then at New Year’s Chris’s parents had won the prize of a lifetime. The New England Association of Sheep Breeders had awarded them a three-week sheep tour in New Zealand. They put off the trip until early June, when the home farm chores were least demanding.

Grandad moved in with Chris, who made sure that things were going smoothly before proposing to take the week off.

On Fowlers Island? Grandad didn’t like that idea, not one bit.

Chris hadn’t actually lied to convince him, but he did have to point out that it wasn’t all that different from his being out there with Dad when they sheared the island sheep. Nor did Chris mention not bringing food. And he had to promise that his friends would check up on him and report back to Grandad.

Since Gary hadn’t yet arrived for the summer, the town boys just assumed that he would agree to this. To be fair, everything would have to be the same for Gary, and Chris would provide him with a map or description of the island.

Don’t forget, Andy remarked as he cut the engine and coasted up to a rocky outcrop below the beach, even if someone shows up, you keep away from them. No help. Unless, he added, you’re in trouble.

I won’t be, Chris said, tossing the rope onto high ground. He shrugged his backpack up his shoulder, stepped out on rockweed, and sank to his ankles in the frigid water. Andy and Eric laughed. Chris laughed, too, to keep from yelping. Hoisting his water jug and sleeping bag, he splashed shoreward.

The one-lunger revved up, making its usual racket. Chris turned to watch them go. Eric shouted something that must have been pretty funny because both boys doubled over laughing. The boat rocked as it backed off.

Chris could only grin. He wouldn’t let them see how he felt, even though it had nothing to do with fear or being spooked. It was more like being shot into space. And it seemed connected to a feeling he had brought with him from the mainland. Grandad’s misgivings? But Chris knew this island too well to let an old man’s superstitions bug him. He had outgrown all the family lore that formed the bedrock of Grandad’s convictions.

Chris’s parents used to try to stop Grandad from filling Chris’s head full of rubbish about ghost girls and island jinxes and strange, flickering lights. Once when they were out on Spars Island visiting Grandad and he had mentioned a sighting, Mom and Dad had tried to kid him out of it by asking if he thought it was a UFO. Grandad didn’t even know what that meant. So they got serious and told him it could be like that smuggling case a few years back. Maybe someone was bringing stuff ashore, even stashing it in the lighthouse and signaling for it to be picked up.

Maybe, Grandad had agreed.

Mom and Dad had gone out then. They hadn’t heard Grandad murmur under his breath, Or maybe not. They hadn’t seen him fix Chris with a hard look, not defiant exactly but purposeful. Let them believe whatever they want, that look told Chris.

Of course that had happened way back when Chris was a believer, too.

2

JOELLEN LUGGED ONE OF HER FATHER’S BAGS OF GEAR down the ramp. It bumped from tread to tread like a stubborn child holding back.

Hey, Josie, no! Dad called up from the cockpit. That should be carried. Abbie can give you a hand with it.

Joellen stopped mid-ramp and waited. Nothing in the world would make her ask Abbie for help. Her father picked up a carton of canned food and disappeared inside the cabin. He and Mom used to stow the supplies together. Now Dad did it all. Abbie was still learning where things went and seemed unsure of herself, especially when she knew she was being watched. Joellen kind of guessed that if she wanted to, she could make Abbie extremely uncomfortable.

Getting ready to go on one of Dad’s bird projects used to be fun. But this year he was anxious and tense. He had already been out on Fowlers Island in March to set things up. Now he was about to find out whether all his planning and work, which had begun five years ago with Mom and had continued up until last year, had succeeded.

Joellen had objected as soon as she had learned that Abbie would be with them the whole time. This was supposed to be vacation time with Dad.

You know Abbie’s living with me now, Dad had said.

I know she’s your ex-student assistant, Joellen had replied evasively.

Dad had sighed. That, too. He had looked as if he were about to say something more, then thought better of it. Please, Josie, please try, he had pleaded.

She had snapped, Don’t call me that. I’m too old for Josie. I’m Joellen.

But of course he forgot, especially when he was preoccupied, like now.

Once they were under way and beating out toward open water, Joellen almost forgot, too. She was at Dovekie’s helm, alone in the cockpit. Abbie had removed herself from the area of hostility and was seated on the foredeck, her back to the mast. Whenever Joellen had to bring the boat about, Abbie leaned out of the way of the jib as if Joellen were aiming it at her. But Dovekie was rigged for single-handing, and there was plenty of clearance up forward. Abbie wasn’t likely to be slapped by the shifting sail.

Dad called up from below, where he was sorting papers. Okay?

Joellen nodded. They were coming up to the black can, the last channel buoy. In a moment she would have to bring Dovekie about again. If Dad had set a course through Grace Narrows, they would have been tacking even more often.

Dad climbed partway up to glance at their position. When we clear Spectacle, he said, you can head off about ten degrees.

Black guillemots, Abbie called from up forward. A few.

We’ll probably find some nesting in our rookery, Dad answered.

Ten degrees won’t clear Shag Ledges, Joellen declared. She knew she was showing off her local knowledge. She knew she was competing with Abbie for Dad’s attention.

It worked, too. Dad told her that the tide would be running strong by now. It should lift them clear. But keep an eye out, he said. There’re plenty of lobster traps to go by, and you can see forever.

Joellen nodded again, satisfied because Dad had shown that he trusted her sailing. Anyway, it was perfect weather for her first time out this season. Dovekie seemed alive as she mounted each sea swell and plunged down every trough. Sometimes she seemed to hesitate, poised on a summit as if relishing the prospect of the next drop. Then with something like a shudder of joy she would slide down, Joellen keeping her bow at a slant and guiding her toward another climb.

The farther out they went, the steeper grew the swells. They began to break against the hull. The spray was icy. Every spring it came as a shock to Joellen, who had to learn anew how slowly the sea warmed up from winter.

As they passed the string of islets called the Porcupines, she waved to a man hauling lobster traps onto a boat that bucked and swung in spite of its little staysail. He was dressed for the cold water in yellow rubber overalls and black boots. She wouldn’t have minded ducking below to change out of her drenched clothes and put on her foul-weather things, but she was afraid that if she gave up the helm, even for a minute, Abbie might take over.

Joellen stared up at Abbie. How come she wasn’t freezing to death up there? Dad, his back to the companionway, was leaning over some charts. He didn’t even notice all the spray.

Abbie gave in first, Dovekie’s pitching too much for her. Clutching the stays, she turned and crawled until she could swivel and drop into the cockpit and on down the companionway. The next moment Dad had her wrapped in a towel and was rubbing her hard. And kissing her.

Joellen had to hold the tiller in both hands now to keep her course steady. She waited for Dad to catch sight of her, cold and wet, struggling at the helm. But he was busy getting Abbie warm and rolling up his charts before her beautiful long hair dripped on them.

Had Mom suspected that Abbie would be with Dad? Was that why Mom had warned Joellen not to expect things to be the same? All Joellen had been able to think about was sailing with Dad and exploring his bird islands. Of course it wouldn’t be the same without Mom. All this last year had been different. But it had never occurred to Joellen that Dad would bring Abbie along on their first time out together. Probably that was why Mom had given Joellen the special notebook that was a journal for writing down her experiences and keeping in touch with her feelings.

Joellen was surprised to see a small open boat slamming from wave to wave as it approached. It was a long way out to sea here, and the boat rode low in the water when it wasn’t crashing through the frothy crests. Because Dovekie was under sail, she had the right-of-way. So Joellen kept her course. But the small boat kept right on, as if heading for Dovekie’s bow.

Bracing herself, Joellen stood up to see better. Two guys, one at the helm, one bailing. Were they in trouble? She was about to call Dad when she realized they were laughing, both of them having a high old time. And they knew what they were up to, trying to force Dovekie off her course.

Some of the townies around Ledgeport found ways to show their contempt for summer people, even though they made a living off them. Probably these boys didn’t realize that Dad wasn’t like the rich yachtsmen who came and went along the coast. True, Dovekie was a sailing vessel, a sloop, but she was Dad’s workboat. He always relied on sail power whenever an engine would disturb the birds he studied.

If this was a game of blink, then Joellen wasn’t about to give in. Steady as she goes, she told herself. She glanced down at the compass and then fixed her gaze on the sails. Clenching her teeth, she willed herself not to look at the oncoming boat.

She heard its engine roar as it veered off and then swung back, shipping water when a wave hit broadside. The boys hooted and swore until even Joellen’s father heard and poked his head up over the cabin deck.

You kids alone out here? he called down to them. That’s not a very seaworthy boat.

Heading back, one boy responded.

We’re cool, the other called with a confident grin. Finest kind.

Dad returned to the cabin. The boys stared at Joellen. She stared back.

I guess you think you’ve got nerves of steel, remarked the boy at the helm.

Unable to think of a good reply, she didn’t say anything.

Next time, the boy went on, don’t be a jerk. You’ve got more to lose than we do.

Not if you get tossed overboard, she retorted. But the moment she spoke, her teeth began to chatter so hard that she couldn’t get the words out properly.

What? called the boys. What?

She didn’t try to make herself heard. Anyway, the distance between Dovekie and the small boat was widening. Looking ahead, Joellen could see the lighthouse on the horizon now. Fowlers Island stood up from the water, the wooded brow to the west so dark a green it was nearly black. She pulled in the main-sheet a bit and headed a few degrees closer to the wind. Soon the rocky cliff appeared, seamed in white where the sea broke all around.

The thrill of arrival hit Joellen as it always did after hours under way. Even though she ached with cold, she was glad she had remained at the helm. She had been flying across the bay. As if in welcome, the sky seethed with birds, their shrill calls drowning out the sound of waves against Dovekie’s hull and something