Chapter 16
.-. . -.-. --- ...- . .-. -.--
Small Island Off Chichagof, AK
Marco tried with all his might to pull in a breath, only the tiniest hint of air making its way through his windpipe. He tried exhaling. Nothing.
Relax. Like falling off the jungle gym in third grade. Breath will come back.
The midday sun stung his eyes, blinding him. He lifted an arm to shade his face. His hands were scraped and scratched, but they still seemed to work. His neck ached and his jaw throbbed. He touched his face. Sticky. Blood.
The taste of metal filled Marco’s mouth. His teeth had slammed together with the impact. His chin burned with pain, hands raw and ragged.
Waves crashed far below him. He finally pulled in some air. A familiar smell of—what was it? Sweet and earthy—his grandparents’ farm.
He carefully pressed down with his arms on either side of his body, afraid to shift his weight as it might send him on down the cliff.
Broken twigs stabbed at his skin as he rolled his body toward the wall, feeling for any sign the support beneath him would fail, shifting his weight in tiny increments.
Every stick snapping sent his heart racing.
He rolled to one side and put his elbow and knee under him.
Up onto all fours—loose scraps of grass and kelp slipped between his fingers as he searched for something to hold him steady.
He was high above the shore, lying in a thick pile of debris that was wedged into a rock outcropping.
Fog swirled up the rocky bluff, clouding his view.
He ventured a lean outward. The rock face was sheer directly below him, flat and wet with no apparent footholds.
To his right, a crevasse between the cliff face and a spire of rock that extended skyward several stories.
Directly above, a tree branch hung from the top edge, hopelessly out of reach.
His shirt was open, ripped from the bottom button. His shore day pack was around his waist. Marco couldn’t remember if he had a first-aid kit in there. He pulled a twig out of one of his rubber boots. He could feel a scratch down his shin.
The surface beneath him was soft. The dense mat of twigs had cushioned his fall. There were long strands of kelp woven between the sticks. Kelp? What was all this dried kelp doing here seventy feet in the…
Nest.
Marco immediately pictured a massive predator descending onto his head, defending its lair, talons ripping into his flesh. In the distance, two eagles circled. Was this their nest? How long until they returned?
He rose to his knees.
Eagles were long-term residents and could inhabit the same nest for thirty-five years or more, adding as much as a foot of new material each year. He’d read that nests could reach ten feet in diameter, weighing over two tons. Eagles would defend them ferociously.
The eagles gained altitude. Their circles seemed to grow. Surely they could see him now.
The nest was packed with sticks, kelp, and dried moss. There was a piece of fishing net, dried seaweed, old feathers. His hand met something fuzzy—some dead small animal or…no, this had leather tied in a knot around a fur exterior.
He pulled out the curious object—an old sealskin pouch a bit larger than a deck of cards. He stuffed it into the front cargo pocket of his Dijon-colored Carhartt jacket and risked poking around a bit more.
The eagles’ circles grew wider, moving closer to the nest with each lap.
The nest seemed to be on solid footing.
He rose carefully to his feet, walking his hands up the cliff face for support, searching for a solid handhold. His arms ached from the fall, and scratches on his skin belted a chorus of pain. His breath was still weak but growing stronger.
The branch above was his best hope. Marco took the piece of fishing net he’d found in the nest and wrapped it around a baseball-sized rock he removed from a crack nearby. He tied that to one end of the paracord he carried, his bloody fingers stinging as he tried to work with the thin cord.
Marco tossed the rock, draping the line over the branch. He tied a square knot at the bottom, forming a loop that went up and over the tree. He secured the loop to his belt.
A couple good tugs—it seemed secure enough.
He began to rappel up the cliff, the thin rope digging into his hands. His belt cut into his back when he leaned away from the rappel line, but it gave the support he needed. He used the ends of his sleeves to protect his palms as he inched his way toward the top.
Patience. Slow and steady.
Marco made it back to Radio Flyer just as the sun was setting.
He dumped his gear and switched on the VHF.
His arms ached every time he moved. His legs were Jell-O.
His balance unsteady. His heart still raced, coming down from the adrenaline rush.
He’d almost been killed. He should have done better.
Should have been more careful. He was smarter than this.
The Coast Guard responded on his first call. “Radio Flyer, we found no sign of the subject, and the window of time is beyond normal survival possibility. Our operation has transitioned to recovery. We’ll continue for a few more days.”
Marco’s heart sank. He put down the microphone without replying and lifted the snow globe from the helm, squeezing it with both hands.
Bastards never believed me. She’s still out here alive. She has to be.
He picked up the mic and replied. “Copy. Radio Flyer standing by one-six.”
Two things were bothering Marco. It had been easy to accept that she “just happened” to have an SSB handheld on her—because he had heard it himself.
It had been easy to accept that a person could fall off a boat and somehow swim to safety in deadly cold water, during a raging storm, along one of the most remote and inhospitable coastlines imaginable—because he had heard it himself.
The chances of both of those things being true were astronomically slim.
He was missing a piece of the puzzle. Trouble was, he didn’t have any good alternative explanation.
Screw the Coast Guard. Find Radioville. She’s there.