Chapter 22
- .-. .- -. ... -- .. - - . .-.
Icy Strait, AK
Marco was making good time.
Radio Flyer had a steady two knots of current helping her along through Icy Strait. The water was flat calm. The glitter in the snow globe lay motionless on the plastic scenery.
Bill had made arrangements to fly into Juneau to join Marco on the boat months ago, and Marco was excited to see him, but he was having trouble shaking the echo of the faint voice on the radio. Even though his search had turned up nothing, he worried that he might be giving up too soon.
Maybe it really was nothing but skip reception from some distant foreign land.
Nobody just falls overboard and swims to shore with a handheld radio, right?
None of it added up. He’d clearly heard the red metal roof. Barfly said that was the only one on the coast. Everything was right about Radioville, except she wasn’t there.
His plan was to cover as much ground today as he could since the weather was unusually settled.
The wind instrument indicated one knot of breeze.
The afternoon sunlight on the Fairweather Range painted the snow-covered peaks with a warm, rosy glow.
Radio Flyer’s chartplotter showed 15.3 miles and two hours’ cruising time to get to Flynn Cove, a small scenic bay right off of Icy Strait, where Marco planned to spend the night.
His phone abruptly sprang to life, buzzing frantically with dozens of messages and alerts.
Apparently he was now back in cell range.
His home screen was a photo of Michelle from the time they visited Misty Fjords.
Her smile beamed into his heart, spanning the time, distance, and even death itself.
Marco could almost feel her presence on the settee behind the captain’s chair, watching over his shoulder to be sure he didn’t navigate into any rocks.
Be great to have Bill onboard for a few days, won’t it?
Two bars of service, and occasionally three. Enough to call and check on Bill.
Bill picked up after two rings. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Wild Alaska.”
“Hey, Bill,” Marco said. “How are things in the Lower Forty-Eight? Still training for the Bunco World Championship?”
“Very funny, man. I hate that game.” Bill did not sound amused. “I just go to keep Mary happy. Although, she gets so carried away gossiping I barely say a word except to remind her to keep playing so we can get the hell out of there eventually.”
“Well, you should see if she’ll—” Static interrupted Marco. “You still there, Bill?”
Marco’s phone signal dropped to one bar. He tapped Speaker and waved it in a circle over his head.
“Now you’re just rubbing it in. You’re livi…your fancy yacht,” Bill’s reply was broken. “…tween bunco and bingo night…Geritol cocktails.”
“Honestly, Bill. I’d trade it all in a heartbeat to have Michelle back and be there in the bunco league with you.” He gently shook the snow globe. The glitter flakes swirled around the Chief Johnson totem pole.
“Sorry, Marco, I didn’t mean t………it’s what she’d want.”
The connection dropped and Marco hit Redial.
Bill answered, “You back?”
The connection sounded better. Marco continued, “Yeah, I got caught up helping in a search for a woman who went overboard.” He told Bill about the distress call, and the Coast Guard not believing it was the missing woman.
“Fell overboard with an SSB handheld in her pocket?” Bill sounded skeptical. “Don’t they just use VHF radios on boats up there?”
Great. Now Bill doesn’t believe me either.
“Never mind,” Marco replied. “They didn’t find her.”
Just can’t shake the feeling she’s still out there alive somewhere.
“Hey, speaking of unlikely radios,” Marco changed the subject, “have you ever heard of an SCR-132?”
“Wow, you been studying the radio history books?” Bill sounded serious now.
“That’s one of the early units used by the Army Signal Corps.
They had a bunch of them—the SCR stood for self-contained radio or Signal Corps Radio or something like that.
Huge ugly beasts they used for talking to planes and ground troops in the field.
They were supposedly ‘portable,’ but it took a truck to move the whole thing—including the gasoline generator to power it.
I don’t remember all the numbers, but 132 sounds familiar. ”
The old black radio sat in a chair next to Marco. “The top is dented but otherwise it’s in pretty good shape. A metal tag on the back says it’s a BC-127 transmitter for use with an SCR-132.”
“You should probably go with something a little more modern for your boat.” Bill chuckled at his own joke. “How the hell did you come by one of those? Military surplus shop? Yard sale?”
Marco told Bill the story of stumbling onto Radioville and finding the radio while searching for the missing woman.
“Excited to see that thing tomorrow.”
“Sure. We’ll have a great time. Talk soon.
” Marco tapped End on his phone and mapped out the trip in his head—Tracy Arm, Endicott Arm—whales, bears, glaciers—five days minimum with good weather.
It would be great to have someone to show around, and to keep him company, maybe get the missing woman out of his head.
He turned up the volume on the SSB again. Nothing but static.