As I let this memory spread through me from the inside out, I notice them for the first time. At first I’m not sure, but then I see movement, splashing, the shape of a raised paddle, the outline of a man’s arm.
Lo and her people. There they are! Huddled against the shoreline, tucked under overhanging ledges of ice.
I’ve caught up to them.
Like me, they searched the shore for a spot to rest. Unlike me, they have nothing to propel them forward, no memory of your face to keep them moving through the worst of circumstances.
And they are novice kayakers, their clan having shunned the water in favor of hunting on land for the last five years. Many of them may never have kayaked before. I watched their silhouettes glide under clear skies across our calm bay, as they headed from Lo’s camp to mine. The open sea is different, and their newly made kayaks may not be perfectly sound and seaworthy. They may even be taking on water.
Paddling through the worst of this storm is difficult for me, a seasoned kayaker. How much more difficult must it be for the Bosha? No wonder I caught up to them.
And now I will pass them. With the memory of your face held in my mind, drawing me ever forward like a signal guard on a cliff with a torch raised high, I will reach you in time to warn you.
The effort becomes strikingly easy after I pass Lo and her group. Just beyond the icy cliffs where they’ve stopped the coastline changes—the rocky bluffs and overhangs smooth out and flatten as the shoreline bends east and the southern faces of the mountains begin their descent to lower ground.
Here, the storm abruptly stops. Streaks of sun break through the clouds ahead of me to the south and the wind shifts. Cold gusts still push from behind me, but a warm breeze blows out from shore.
I allow myself the indulgence of looking over my shoulder, but only for a moment. Checking the sky, I see the reason for the rapid change in weather—the storm has become caught behind the mountains. Dark clouds still haunt the sky just north of my tiny boat, but they are caught—temporarily, I’m sure—behind the peaks that form a gate to the south.
I revel in the smallest benefits of the break from the storm—my face dries in the breeze, my hands warm enough to get a more comfortable grip on the paddle. Other things are just as awful as ever—my soaked clothes still cling to my soaked skin—but I focus on the small things.
Now is the time to make progress. I paddle hard, scanning the shore to the east. With the sun’s light, I can see well—better than I have all day. I remember these features. They form the shoreline just north of your camp.
I am almost there.
I paddle on. I will myself to move faster, but my arms slow as if I’ve grown old in one day. I watch the coastline—an inlet, a rocky bluff, another inlet . . . Could it be that I wasn’t as close as I’d thought? The sun still breaks through clouds to the south, but the rays are slanting sharply from the west. How long have I been out on the sea? If the sun were to set as the rain caught up with me again, I would be swallowed up by darkness.
Clouds roll over me, shadowing the water and shadowing my thoughts. Ideas toss around in my head like tiny boats on the waves.
I have to get to you—to get out of the water, out of the rain, out of the cold. It seems like it should be easy, but despite the fact that I can understand the goal, I can’t think of how to accomplish it.
Paddle, I tell myself. Paddle.
I dig deep into the waves, but my muscles won’t cooperate. I dig again and again, but with each stroke, the thought of you slips further and further away.
Darkness closes in at the corners of my vision. The dark calls to me, promising warmth. For a moment, I’m tempted. It would be so easy to stop trying.
I close my eyes and darkness falls fast and heavy, cutting me off from the water, the cold, the waves.
I want to welcome the dark. I open my mind to it, to the possibility of letting go of the pain in my shoulders, the shiver in my chest, the numbness in my fingers. I suck in a deep breath of darkness, letting it fill me.
Yes, I will let go. I will slump into darkness’s warm embrace. I will open my eyes one last time, take one final look at the cold sun, and let go.
My eyelids flip open, and something at the water’s edge catches my attention.
Movement.
Among low cliffs of gray rock something flashes—light slides in front of dark before disappearing into the shadows. An elk, maybe? I know you have herds of elk in your range, and there are few other animals that would graze on such steep footing. I slow my boat and let my gaze sweep over the ledges. I watch but see nothing. . . .
Nothing.
Gray on gray, shadow on shadow.
The sun stabs one final ray through the thickening gloom, and there it is again. The flash of movement. The glint of light.
My eyes shift involuntarily to the same rocky ledge they’d searched just a moment before.
And there you are.
TWENTY-SIX