Chapter 16 #2
"I've been there before. I know the approach and I’m fully trained. I don’t need babysitting."
Sylvie's jaw tightens. "Then I'm logging this as an unauthorized solo operation and calling Callum myself."
"Fine."
"And I think you're making a mistake."
"Noted."
I turn and walk toward the equipment storage room before she can say anything else.
I grab a rescue carrier, net cutters, heavy gloves, a first aid kit, and a thermal blanket.
I check the tide chart pinned to the wall.
The tide is going up, which means the currents around Gannet Rock will be pulling seaward rather than toward shore.
That's manageable.
I remember that Orvik navigated the leeward approach on an outgoing tide when we released Captain Peck.
I feel sure of myself as I cast off the dock lines and pilot the skiff toward the open water.
The afternoon is clear and the sea is calm, its surface glittering under a wide sky. The lighthouse passes on my left as I follow the coastline north.
About an hour later, Gannet Rock appears on the horizon as a dark shape rising from the water. The gannets are circling above it, white bodies wheeling against the blue sky. I can see the colony on the upper rocks, hundreds of birds in their noisy, chaotic congregation.
I slow the skiff and begin my approach.
The leeward side is to my right. That's the safe approach.
If the bird were there, I'd be fine. But the bird isn't there. The fisherman said windward side, which means I need to come around the formation to the northeast face, where the rock drops steeply into the water and the currents wrap around the base.
It’s okay. I’ve been here before with both Callum and Orvik and I know what I’m doing.
I circle wide, giving the formation a generous berth, reading the surface for signs of what's underneath. I can see the color changes in the water, darker patches where the depth drops, lighter streaks where submerged rock sits close to the surface.
I just have to steer clear of the submerged rocks. They’re what make this area treacherous.
The windward side opens up as I round the formation.
I spot the bird almost immediately. It’s a gannet, just like the man described, white and large, on a flat rock about two feet above the waterline.
Even from this distance I can see the dark tangle of netting wrapped around its body and one outstretched wing.
It's alive. Its head is up, its beak open.
It's been there long enough to exhaust itself struggling.
"Hang on," I tell it, though it can't hear me over the engine. "I'm coming."
I need to get close enough to anchor and climb the rocks.
The water near the base is choppy where the current hits the windward face and splits, curling around both sides of the formation, and the resulting chop is rougher than anything on the leeward side.
Not dangerous on its own, but complicated.
The kind of water that demands your full attention.
I cut the throttle and let the skiff drift, trying to find a spot where I can hold position close enough to reach the bird. The current immediately begins pushing me toward the south side of the formation where the thickest rock clusters are.
I correct with the engine. The skiff swings back. The current pushes again.
I can do this. I just need to find the right angle, get close enough to set the anchor on a stable rock shelf, and climb out with the rescue kit. Twenty minutes on the rocks, cut the bird free, get it in the carrier, back in the boat. I've done harder rescues in training.
I edge the skiff closer. A submerged rock scrapes the hull, a grinding sound that makes my stomach drop, and I jerk the wheel to port. The skiff lurches. The current catches the bow and spins me thirty degrees.
I correct, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I come in again, slower this time, watching the water for the lighter patches that mark the rocks.
I get within fifteen feet of the rocks. The gannet sees me and goes still, its dark eyes fixed on the approaching boat. I cut the engine entirely, planning to drift the last few feet and set the anchor by hand.
The current takes me immediately.
Without the engine to hold my position, the skiff swings sideways into the pull. I lunge for the anchor and toss it toward the rock shelf, but the line goes taut and the anchor skids across wet stone without catching.
Shit. This is bad.
The skiff keeps drifting, picking up speed as the current funnels between two submerged formations and pushes me around the windward face toward open water.
I haul the anchor back and try again.
Missed. Fear begins to billow up in my throat as I realize I’ve miscalculated my approach.
The current is stronger here, I can feel it in the way the boat moves, not just drifting but being pulled, the water having its own ideas about where I'm going.
I start the engine. It catches, sputters, catches again. I throttle forward against the current and the skiff holds for a moment, shuddering, then the current shifts. The tide pulls harder as the water drops, and the bow swings seaward despite the engine.
Oh. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I'm being carried past the formation toward open water. The shore is four miles behind me and Gannet Rock is moving to my left as the current pulls me northeast, away from the rocks, away from the bird, away from any point of reference except the lighthouse blinking in the far distance.
The engine is running but I'm losing ground. The current is stronger than the outboard at this throttle, and if I push harder, I risk hitting the submerged rocks that are everywhere around this formation.
I ease off the throttle. I let the current carry me out past the worst of the rocks, into deeper water where at least the hull is safe. The skiff bobs in the swell. Gannet Rock sits fifty yards behind me, unreachable.
Okay. I’m not going to be able to deal with this on my own.
I swallow my pride and I reach for the VHF radio, intent on calling Orvik directly.
I press the radio to my mouth.
"This is Jackie Durand, Flippers and Feathers Rescue Center, requesting assistance at Gannet Rock. I'm in the center's skiff, drifting northeast of the formation. Current is too strong for solo navigation. Does anyone copy?"
Static.
"This is Jackie Durand, repeat, requesting assistance. I'm drifting northeast of Gannet Rock. Does anyone copy?"
Static again. The radio hisses and goes quiet.
I lower the radio to my lap. Panic swirls in my chest and my head feels like it’s on fire despite the chilly ocean wind.
The pearl is blazing against my chest, so bright I can see the glow through my shirt, throwing blue-white light across the wet console.
It pulses in a rhythm I've never felt before, fast and urgent.
I close my eyes for three seconds. I open them. The current is still carrying me northeast. Gannet Rock is still getting smaller. The gannet is still tangled on the rocks and I am still alone on the Atlantic in a boat I can't control.
I try the radio one more time. Nothing.
Okay, if no one can hear me, I need to work the problem. I can run with the current, loop wide, come back around to the leeward side where the water is calmer. It'll cost me an hour and the bird might not have an hour, but it's better than drifting into open ocean until someone notices I'm gone.
I'm reaching for the throttle when the pearl does something new.
It stops pulsing and becomes so bright that it’s like I have a tiny sun hanging from my neck. I stare at it, but I have to narrow my eyes to slits to look at it.
Then something near Gannet Rock attracts my attention away from the blazing black pearl at my neck.
A vessel rounds the far side of Gannet Rock, emerging from behind the formation where the cliffs block the view.
It moves against the current with an ease that makes my stomach turn over.
The vessel is completely silent, no engine noise, no wake.
The hull is dark and curved, sliding over the water in a way I've ever seen, the lines of it organic, almost alive.
A figure stands on its deck. Tall, broad, tentacle hair moving in the wind. He is watching me.
A kraken.