Chapter 73
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Inian Pass, AK
Marco gave the snow globe a couple of good shakes and set it back on its perch above the helm. “This may be a bit of a rough ride.” The glitter snowflakes swirled around the Chief Johnson totem pole and drifted down onto the plastic Creek Street boardwalk.
Radio Flyer swayed and twisted in the current as she bucked four knots of tidal outflow through Inian Pass. Marco hadn’t timed the route well and arrived near max ebb. He revved the engine to maintain steerage and stood at the helm ready to react to any eddies or whirlpools he might encounter.
Radio Flyer swerved sharply to starboard—a whirlpool.
Marco spun the wheel. The boat rolled and then locked back into her groove, straight on course again.
No other vessels on radar. Engine temps normal. Boat making four knots against the current.
“What fresh means of demise have you cooked up for us this time?” Bill was climbing the steps into the pilothouse, his face pale, two sandwiches balanced on small plates on one arm, the other gripping the banister with white knuckles.
“Hey, you brought lunch! Hang on to those plates, it’ll be squirrelly for a bit.
” Marco spun the wheel to starboard, anticipating the torque another large whirlpool was about to put on them.
Radio Flyer twisted right, swerved back to the left, then steadied in a straight line as the hull pulled out of the spinning vortex.
Marco bumped the throttle down a notch and leaned back against the front of the helm seat.
“What was that?” Bill’s voice was thin and high.
“Whirlpool. Sometimes they suck a boat under and it pops up a mile away.”
“Wha…Really? Marc…” Bill squeaked as he released the banister and leaped into the seat behind Marco, catching one sandwich as it slipped from its plate.
“Nah, just pullin your chain.” Marco reached for the sandwich Bill had set on the helm. Salmon spread made from leftover coho they had caught and cooked the day before. The warm toasted bread gave a nice crunch. “Thanks for the sandwich. Delicious.”
The water smoothed and Marco engaged Radio Flyer’s autopilot. He turned on his “Easy Cruisin” playlist and settled into his helm chair for the long ride into Hoonah.
Outside, sunlight glinted off the water like scattered coins. In the distance, a whale breached—just once—and disappeared without fanfare. A raft of sea otters watched Radio Flyer pass, probably trying to decide if it was something they could trust.
Marco said nothing. Just watched the horizon, the gentle rise and fall of the bow as Radio Flyer pressed forward.
Maybe there was still time.
Not for answers. Maybe not for closure.
But for motion. For the notion of forward progress. For light on the water. For what came next.