Must Love Otters (16 page)

On my ass, I manage to slide into the boat without too much pain. It’s unsteady, and my sea legs are nonexistent, but it’s not like I’m planning a cross-Atlantic tour. I just need to float. And think.

This boat has oars. And under the bench I find a bag with a Revelation Cove fleece pullover and some emergency supplies. I won’t need the sunscreen tonight but the spray bottle of mosquito repellent is most appreciated. Not like anyone’s going to inhale the lavender Mike/Steve scrubbed into my pores. Adding DEET to the perfumery won’t make a bit of difference when no one’s tongue will be licking parts usually covered with decency.

I should do it. I should untie that little rope and push myself out into the water and paddle across the way to that other island where the birds are making mince of the fish, where no humans are lying in wait to laugh or point or cheat on unsuspecting twenty-somethings with more shoes than sense. It’s not that far. It’s not dark. The emergency bag has a crank flashlight and granola bars, plus the dock and the front of the lodge have plenty of light, so I can easily scoot across and scoot back.

I untie the rowboat and give a shove against the dock with one of the oars. A quick scan of the area reveals I am, as yet, still alone, though I can hear laughter rolling over the greenway slope from outdoor diners. Lacking marine expertise, I bonk and volley my hijacked vessel through the other white boats, to the end of the dock, and into the open water. Within ten or twelve pulls, I break a sweat—this is harder than it looks, especially with leverage from only one leg—but it feels good to be doing something other than watching Roger gloat or sitting in front of Concierge Ryan with his
I told you so even though I told you nothing because I’m a giant hairy jerk
face.

The shore across the way isn’t that far. I’ll make it in just a few minutes. Easily. Maybe there will be otters. Where there are fish and birds, there have to be otters. Right?

If I’m careful, I can pull up without scaring the winged diners away. They’re having at it. From the only sequined handbag I’ve ever owned in my life, I pull my phone and try to take a photo of this crazy swarm straight out of a Hitchcock film. My first foray into wildlife photography!

Kerplunk.

Something splashes. I look around, willing it to be a seagull come to say hello, hoping it’s not one of those sharks Concierge Ryan said live in BC waters.

“Don’t be stupid,” I say to myself and the silence.

Because letting go of an oar to take a photo of shithawks eviscerating a dying fish is not stupid at all.

Especially when the oar is now floating away from your boat, rather swiftly, its wide head bobbing as if to wave goodbye.

“Aren’t these things supposed to lock in? Shit!” With the singular remaining oar, I struggle with the current that seems to be conspiring against my efforts. Round and round we go, swirling away from the birdy buffet, away from the dock, away from Revelation Cove and its hidden dangers of the male variety.

I’m going to have to paddle harder and faster, switching from one side of the boat to the other, if I don’t want to end up in the middle of this inlet, alone, as the moon steps over the mountainous summits and settles in for the evening.

But that’s exactly what happens. No amount of paddling is going to get me nearer to that dock, not with one oar. My only option is to steer toward the lost paddle, which now has a considerable lead in the current carrying us away from the speck of civilization.

I did not appreciate the true width of this waterway upon my initial floatplane arrival. Perspective is everything, and the drift downstream is providing me with a view I did not anticipate. Beauty of epic, overwhelming proportions and postcard pretty? Totally. Terrifying with a side of
oh my dear God I could die out here and no one would know
? Little bit.

I pull the second—only—oar into the boat, conceding that this water is stronger than I am. If I can get closer to shore, though, I might be able to ease along the quieter water or even use the subtle licks of wave to push me onto the rocky beach. Except the beach at my present location is nonexistent—the side of this latest island is trees and rock, straight into the water, as if dropped from the heavens. And it’s far away. With one oar, by the time I get close, I’ll be onto the next treed, rocky outcropping.

I clutch onto the oar—now my most precious commodity—and consider my options. If there’s a knife in the emergency kit, I can slice up the canvas and use Tabby’s ribboned décor to fashion makeshift oars out of one of the crutches.

Brilliant!

Excited, I spill the supply bag contents onto the boat bottom. Sweatshirt, tiny first-aid kit, bottled water, five granola bars, a can of some gooey stuff for repairing holes, three oily flares.

No knife.

Deflated, I stuff the contents back into the bag. If I can’t turn this not-so-pleasurable craft around, will I sail to … to where? Victoria? The Pacific Ocean? Nah. Someone will find me before then, right? Shit, they better. I will run out of granola bars after five meals, granting only one bar per meal. I double-check the bag’s outside pocket for spirits to warm a cold soul. Not a drop. Probably best. Getting drunk out here as the sun abandons me is likely not the wisest course of action.

As if any of my actions lately have been wise.

But wait! I have a phone! Of course! I can call the resort. Yeah, I’m going to eat a crow pie so big, I’ll be shitting black feathers for a year once Ryan or some other staff member launches a rescue. But it’s not really a rescue—it’s just … helping. I lost an oar. Perfectly benign. Could happen to anyone. I had a dispatch call once from a kid who lost his oar on the Willamette River, and easy peasy, the river patrol helped him back within just a few minutes. No sirens, no flashing lights.

At this point, Ryan should expect something like this from me. Ryan and Tabby have both said it—I’ve been a source of nonstop entertainment since my arrival. Hell, since before my arrival. I made him giggle when Ridley and I drunk dialed the resort, right? That’s it—when Ryan sighs and huffs at me for being a crazy pain in his ass, I will remind him that my antics have been solely for his enjoyment, that the sedate Revelation Cove hasn’t seen hilarity of this scope, I dare say, ever. I’ll be taking that free night’s stay and in-room breakfast now, thank you.

But this pep talk to fortify my resolve against Ryan’s sure-fire annoyance is for naught when the screen of my phone flashes two alarming little words:
no service
.

Well. This is a problem.

Panic is the wrong emotion here. I have to dig deep, channel Calm Hollie who talks husbands through birthin’ babies on bathroom floors, who talks to scared babysitters afraid someone is in the house to chop them up, who talks Mona through Herb’s diabetic fit while we wait for EMS to arrive.

Calm Hollie is calm.

Lying back against the forward bench, I listen as the water laps the side of the boat, watch overhead as stars peek out of their hidey-holes and burn hot to shine through thickening cloud cover. This is a peace I’ve never experienced, and while arguably magnificent, I’ve never, ever been this alone.

When I left Portland for pastures less complicated, wobbling adrift in unfamiliar waters was not exactly what I’d envisioned. Especially not on a night when I look as good as I likely ever will. Then again, I had no idea I’d be slimed by a dude who sells organic bananas and exotic vegan marmalade for a living. When it’s a man whose wife cheats, he’s a cuckold. What do they call the young woman in the midst of a premature midlife crisis almost duped into giving up the treasure to a cheater-cheater-pumpkin-eater?

Desperate. Foolhardy. Lame.

If my phone had service, I’d find an online thesaurus and search for all the words to describe what a total ass I am.

But I have no cell service. Which means no thesaurus to chip away at what remains of my limping self-esteem.

I cannot panic. All I can do is wait.

I pull on the oversized fleecy, mothball-smelling sweatshirt and flatten the canvas tarp over my bare legs, careful not to rest too much weight on my angry ankle. The tiny part of my brain that governs adult-like, logical behavior tells me that the stars are too numerous to count but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.

Within a few moments, the gentle lullaby of the rocking boat coaxes my wine spritzer-infused body with waves of sleepytime. I could sleep. If I lie still, I won’t tip the boat. And I’m hugging the oar to my chest because it truly is my last remaining lifeline.

Something brushes under the boat. Seconds later, a wet
whooooooooosh
explodes alongside my floating oasis. My heart rockets into my throat. Holy fucking shit, it’s gotta be a shark. He said there are sharks. Twenty species? Or was it two hundred? The shark can sense my fear and now he’s going to go
Jaws
on my ass and knock my boat around until I fall in and then he and his little shark babies are going to have an all-you-can-eat night at the Hollie Buffet.

I sit up, so, so carefully. “Please not a shark … please not a shark …”

The enormous black dorsal fin just feet from the rowboat does not belong to a shark.

It belongs to a killer whale. Orca.
Orcinus orca
.

Free Willy has come to visit. And with him—it has to be a male, judging by the height of that fin, easily taller than I am—he’s brought friends. Another black fin, this one with more crescent in its curve, punctures the surface of the water, followed by a third, this one much smaller.

A baby.

A baby!

They’re either checking me out, or I will be their sprite’s next hunting lesson.

Let’s hope for the former.

I sit up straighter, knuckles white around the oar’s neck. I’ve watched a thousand documentaries on these gorgeous beasts but I am … I don’t even know what I am. A million emotions at once slam into the lopsided, wormy cabin in my head that serves as the nerve center.

“Holy mother of holy holies,” I say to the breeze.

Whooooooooosh!

The male is back close to the boat, so close that he rubs it as he exhales wet breath into the sky, his nudge not entirely gentle. My face is awash in misty whale spit.

“A whale spit on me!” I laugh out loud. “Ohhhh, you are so beautiful!”

The gallop of cardiovascular muscle against cartilage and bone in my chest is almost painful, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Like the orca, I have to breathe or I will sink to the bottom of this inlet.

The female skyhops about ten feet from the other side, her dark eye inquisitive as she bobs out of the water. She clicks, a sound almost like a playing card against bicycle spokes or a thumbnail down a grooved surface.

“Hello, my darling gorgeous creature. Is that your baby? Can I see your baby?” She disappears into the blackness to circle around, showing off the white on her fluke’s underside as she dives again. The male is particularly curious, again rubbing against the side of the boat, jarring the simple wooden vessel hard enough that I’m afraid he’ll tip it, so close I could touch the grayish saddle over his wet onyx back if only I’d reach out. Which I won’t do. Because as breathtaking and life-changing as this moment is, I am scared to the point that my stomach might have to be surgically returned to my abdominal cavity.

As though waiting for a thunderclap, I count between resurfacings, between blows around the boat. When I get to eleven-one-thousand, I think they’ve left me, gone on to chase seals.

“Did you leave? Come back …”

I ease into a standing position. Maybe if I’m taller, I can better see the white-against-black contrast if indeed they’re under the boat.

Nothing. The water has returned to its quiet former self.

Whooooooooooosh!

The exhale behind is just enough of a shove for me to topple backward into the water.

Beyond the bone-numbing, choking cold, all I can think about is the fact that I AM GOING TO BE DINNER if I don’t get my half-naked body out of this fucking water. In the instant I’m submerged, something akin to a whistle slams into my eardrums, audible even over my flailing arms. The whales—they’re talking to each other! And I hope it’s not about their favorite recipes for harebrained city girls.

My damaged ankle shrieks as I kick to stay afloat, as I struggle against the inky drink to hoist my top half over the boat’s side, a hundred screams stuck in my panicked throat.

If I struggle too much, Daddy Orca might pull me under and throw my oxygen-deprived form skyward for Mommy and Baby to slap around until I’m no longer a threat. That’s what they do—orcas play with their food until it isn’t flopping anymore. They seem to love the challenge of undoing what was once alive before sinking those impressive white teeth into blood-warmed flesh.

Get out of the water get out of the water get out of the fucking water!

Now is not the time to worry about the pain, present or future. Now is the time for action.

Hands locked around the middle bench, I yank myself up and over, praying I won’t topple the rowboat, eyes squinted tight, waiting for that chomp that will remove foot from ankle, calf from thigh.

The chomp does not come, but the clicking Mommy Orca skyhops again, not five feet from the opposite side of the boat, as if to check on me. I’m on my belly across the narrow bench, legs bent at ninety-degree angles to keep them free of enterprising daddy orcas, my body drenched from stem to stern, hair dripping and heavy, my skin goosebumped so hard, it’s painful like a thousand acupuncture needles stabbing into my hair follicles.

“Thank you for not eating me,” I whisper. The baby skyhops alongside, his (her?) head and eyes so breathtakingly beautiful, I need that damn thesaurus again just to find the words. “Omigod … omigod … thank you …”

Daddy Orca circles around, the exhaled blowhole mist wafting past, surprisingly warm against the chills vibrating violently through me.

This time when I start the count, I stop when three dorsal fins protrude at intervals farther and farther away. They’re leaving. And they didn’t eat me.