Chapter 48
Now
Annie stares at the empty boat cradle in the warehouse for what feels like forever before she steps inside.
Very little else has changed. Inside the stove is a half-burned log. The emerald-green canoe with the broken oar still sleeps
in the rafters, and orange life jackets dot the hangers on the wall. But a new folding cot is arranged in the corner with
an army-green sleeping bag and a pillow.
Annie crosses the room.
A constellation of items is arranged on the workbench: the spoon with moon phases on the handle, a gold bracelet, two zipper
pulls, a watch that no longer ticks. A cell phone with a cracked screen. Together, they form a circle. In the centre of the
workbench, the sawdust has been brushed aside and there: a sand dollar.
“He said you might be coming.”
Annie whips around. “Uncle Henry. How’d you know I was up here?”
“Saw you come in from the harbour.”
She embraces him and the familiar, damp-wool smell of his jacket. His cheeks are more weathered and crepey, his beard even
whiter. But his steadfastness feels unchanged.
“Evan told you I was on my way up?”
“No.”
Annie blinks. “Who was it?”
Henry removes his hat and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up in white plumes. “He showed up buck naked again. Couldn’t
tell me where he’d been.”
“Oh my god.” Annie’s jaw goes slack. Her hands fall loose at her sides.
“Never was much of a talker. It was even worse this time,” Henry says.
Annie’s legs are shaking so badly she has to sit down on the cot.
Henry puts his cap back on. “It’s late, little fish. You can stay at Ruth’s tonight. It’s shipshape up there. I’ll cook you
something.”
She looks to him. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Walker said he told you himself.”
“What?” She rubs her thighs to try to get them to stop quivering. They will not.
He frowns. “Look at you. You’re so exhausted you’re shaking. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
“When did Walker leave, Uncle Henry?”
“Sailed out less than a week ago. He didn’t even have a radio or GPS for god’s sake.” Henry looks over at the cradle. “Said
he didn’t need them.”
“How’d Polaris look on the water?” She wishes she could have seen it.
“She looked good. Seaworthy.”
“I’m going to stay here tonight.”
“Come home, Annie. Take a shower. Put your feet up.”
She says nothing.
“You’re thinking about going after him, aren’t you?” Henry says quietly.
“I can’t think right now.”
“Well.” Henry massages the back of his neck. He doesn’t fight her. “Let me at least build you a fire.”
Once the wood stove is aglow, he gives Annie a squeeze on the shoulder and leaves. As soon as his footsteps fade, she shuts
off the light and removes her boots. Still fully clothed, she burrows into the sleeping bag, into Walker’s almost presence,
listening for his sound and finding it.
Above his hum floats a higher-pitched whisper. A voice, isn’t it? Annie closes her eyes to listen. She sees herself on the
transom of Amphitrite. Her body holds her strong, careening over dark green water. The whisper-voice morphs and expands, then condenses, until
it’s clearer. Then unmistakable. It’s her mother’s voice.
Here, Mara says, here. It repeats again and again, hypnotizing her, until Annie cannot help but sleep.
Sunlight wakes her in the morning.
The fire has died. Her body is stiff and sore, like she slept a thousand dreamless years. But her mind is already racing:
Meet me on the water, Walker’s dream said. And now this one: Here.
The messages are frustratingly far away. Why wouldn’t Walker have waited for her? Where is he going with no radio and no navigation?
Why did she hear her mom’s voice?
Outside, it is already bright and talk radio floats over the harbour. Fishing boats are setting out.
Henry stands over a cardboard box on the wharf. Galene bobs next to him, moored in a slip.
“You’ll need provisions, if you’re going.” He looks up at her briefly. “I put a new radio in. New mainsail, too. The electrical
on the outboard is all rewired.” He raps his knuckles on the hull. He seems about a hundred paces in front of her.
“What are you doing?”
He turns to face her, a can of green beans in one hand, a box of spaghetti in the other.
“Since you were born”—he raises his eyebrows—“you’ve never been happier than on a boat.”
“You think I’m going to chase him?”
He stacks the provisions on the foredeck. “Might as well get you properly set up. I owe your grandmother that much.”
Annie rubs her face. “I don’t even know where he’s going.”
Henry pulls canned salmon out of the box. “Rain should be holding off.”
She risks a glance at Galene, its rolled jib, the way she sways in the water. A sharp longing behind her breastbone. She’s come this far.
Would it even be possible to turn back?
It takes the whole morning to get ready, to eat a cold breakfast at Rosie’s, to remember the workings of Galene. She tries the GPS, tests the radio handset, fills two large water jugs, greases the winches.
She’s mustered the courage by midafternoon. Annie unties the stern line from the dock cleat.
Henry reaches down, touches the water, and tastes it.
Annie pauses. “You’ve always done that.”
“When I’m not on the water, I’m always missing it.”
“I tried not to think about it.” She lowers her head. “I love a lot of things in the city. We have season tickets to the symphony.
And espresso. The grocery stores . . . they have everything. Sometimes I even love working.”
Henry stations himself over the aft cleat. “Trappings, I think they call those. But it was only a matter of time.”
“You thought I’d come back?”
“I always thought they were right, the superstitions around here.” He unties the knot methodically. “That we can turn into
seawater if we stay out there long enough.”
“Why taste it?”
He keeps his eyes on his hands. “I always hoped they’d be right. That one day I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between
me and the sea. And then I’d know.”
“Know what?”
He looks out toward the ocean. His forehead is unfurrowed, and his eyes soften. “Everything about her.”
After Henry grills her a few more times on the equipment, does triple-checks of her double-checks, hugs her for a long minute,
and steps back across onto the dock, Annie starts the motor.
Reversing, she navigates out of the slip and then into the harbour.
She can’t believe she’s about to sail on her own and blinks several times to make sure it’s not imaginary. But the helm is
cold under her gloved hands and the water rocks under her feet. It’s real.
Henry follows along for a while in his skiff, like he’s testing her, making sure she isn’t about to sink, making sure she
can still hoist a sail. But she does, she can. Her muscles remember. The mainsail unfurls, filling its large belly.
Satisfied, Henry gives her a final wave.
Annie’s on her own. She still knows this rocky channel and every narrowing; she can sense the sea bottom, the ocean bed.
It takes the rest of the day to sail out the channel. When she arrives to open water, the horizon is gigantic. Its categorical
smoothness empties her mind, shaking her free.
Annie needs to set a real bearing. She closes her eyes and tries to latch on to something. A brief disorientation settles
over her, as if she’s driven up to a four-way stop but has no idea which way to turn. She’s stuck in the middle of the intersection.
She focuses on Walker’s low sound, tuning in.
“Where are you?” Annie says it out loud, as if her voice might enter the sound.
She waits.
Annie feels an unmistakable pull. Here. A moment of righting herself, orienting to a direction. She opens her eyes.
He is north.