Long before the storm rolled in, it was a quiet day on the water. Even the most dedicated lobstermen typically choose to spend the Fourth with family and friends. Tommy looked at me like I had two heads when I told him my plans to check the traps this morning, but he knows better than to argue with me by now. I may be the only bastard alive more stubborn than he is.
The waves build from a slow roll to a steady chop as I putter south, following the jagged Rockport coastline. In the distance, dark clouds reach skyward, rife with the promise of rain. I wouldn’t want to be caught on the wrong side of that mess. In six months working on the water, I’ve never seen a squall move in so fast.
As I pass by Crow Island, I try — as always — not to look at the sprawling estate perched on the cliffside… but Cormorant House has a unique gravitational pull. My eyes move of their own accord to the place that was once my home. You cannot, of course, see the less-than-elegant outline of Gull Cottage from this vantage point — the staff quarters that I shared with Ma, Pa, and Jaxon are set back in the woods, out of sight, where they won’t bring down the property values — but the imposing angles of the Valentine mansion make my chest tighten.
Is she inside? I wonder. Is she pressed up against the glass of her gilded cage, staring out at the ocean, wondering why that old yellow lobster boat passes by her cove so often?
It wasn’t intentional. Not in the beginning, at least. But over the past few weeks, since that June afternoon I first saw her out sailing by Great Misery Island, I’ve found myself steering a bit closer to the shore than I used to on my route home. Looking across the sheltered cove to the private dock where a small red sailboat bobs. Loosing a breath I didn’t realize I was holding when I see it’s still there. Because that means maybe she’s still there. Still within reach. Even if she’s no longer mine to reach for. Even if the sight of her is the most acute form of torture.
Twisted, I know.
But if I’ve learned anything in the past year, it’s that the only thing worse than seeing her is not seeing her. On the days her boat is gone from the cove, I seek her out at sea. It’s almost involuntary — like a moth drawn to flame, I scan the surrounding waters for flashes of red as I go about my tasks, one eye fixed on the horizon as I restock bait bags and band crusher claws.
Tommy has surely noticed my recent distraction, even if he fails to understand its cause. He grumbles under his breath about my head being in the clouds — and, occasionally, up my own ass — but even that isn’t enough to make me quit my painful new habit. I live for those fleeting glimpses of blonde hair; for those scant seconds when our paths intersect. I’m always careful to keep just far enough away that she can’t recognize me. Not that she would. I doubt I bear much resemblance to the boy in her memories.
I justify my stalker-like behavior with flimsy excuses, telling myself it’s fine to keep an eye on her, so long as she never knows I’m there. A guardian angel, watching from afar when she takes her sailboat out alone in the afternoons.
Just one mariner looking out for another.
I’d do the same for anyone.
My lies sound hollow even to myself.
The truth is, checking up on Jo is a habit so deeply ingrained, I can’t seem to break it. I don’t feel at ease unless I know she’s safe. I don’t feel alive unless I’m certain she’s out there somewhere, existing. So now, as I round the small peninsula where Cormorant House looms and the cove comes into view… my hands tighten on the wheel until my knuckles turn white. Because the small red sailboat is missing from its spot at the dock. Which means Jo is out sailing.
Sailing in a storm.
My eyes cut to the ominous wall of black clouds billowing on the southern horizon. It’s heading straight for shore, cutting a swathe directly through an area there’s a good chance she’s out exploring.
Not that it’s my problem, anymore.
She’s not my problem, anymore.
But…
Fuck.
The first bolts of lightning split the sky over Salem Sound. I hope to God I’m wrong. But I know I’m not when I hear a distress call over the radio. I fumble for the knob, turning up the volume to hear it over the roar of the engine.
The voice coming across the line is faint. Muffled with static. And undeniably, heart-stoppingly familiar.
“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! This is the vessel Cupid…”
Her transmission cuts off halfway through. It doesn’t matter. The few snippets I managed to hear tell me everything I need to know.
Taking on water.
The Misery Islands.
Immediate assistance.
There’s no choice.
No weighing of options.
No moment of hesitation.
The Ebenezer’s engine growls in throaty protest as I push the throttle faster, foregoing the turn-off into the Gloucester Harbor channel.
Heading south toward the islands.
Toward the squall.
Toward Jo.
NINE
josephine
Lightning streaks again, electrifying the world for the briefest of instants. I didn’t realize how dim the sky had grown until it flashed momentarily back into focus; the craggy outline of Cape Ann is now almost indiscernible from the oppressive storm-front of rain and mist. Thankfully, the lumpy land masses that make up the Misery Islands are still visible off my port bow, my one remaining reference point in the darkness.
Hope sparks inside me — a fool’s hope, perhaps, but I grasp at it with all my flagging courage. There’s an anchorage at Great Misery. A small inlet, barely more than a shallow bay. Not a perfect spot to ride out such foul weather, but surely a better option than bobbing out here like a sitting duck, waiting to be struck by the next bolt of lightning.
Almost as if I’ve conjured it, another shockwave streaks across the atmosphere — a bolt of pure static power that severs the sky into neon shards. I count the seconds in my head: eight full heartbeats before the accompanying crash of thunder.
Eight miles away.
Too close.
And home is too far.
Just like that, my decision is made. Abandoning any aspirations of making it to the mainland, I adjust my course and head for the nearby islands instead. My sails groan over the howling wind, straining against their stays. The sheets grow taut beneath the pressure. I fear the rigging will not hold if the storm intensifies even slightly. The thought alone is enough to inspire true panic.
If the sails go, I’m screwed.
Ripping sails aren’t my only worry. On this new course, Cupid is positioned perpendicularly to the building waves. Swells crash over the rails every few seconds, dousing my shins. The cockpit is beginning to look like a bathtub. The boat — not designed to carry this much weight — rides low, bulldozing forward like a field-plow through mud. Forcing her way through the water instead of gliding atop it.
With my free hand, I grab the plastic emergency bailer from the storage cubby and start to scoop out bucketfuls manually — one after another after another, a Sisyphean task. It’s coming in faster than I can hope to expel it. Maybe if I had two hands to dedicate to bailing, maybe if someone else were here with me…
Maybes will not save me, now.
Minutes pass. Minutes of terror and breathlessness. Of shivers and shakes, born of cold and fear. I’m not sure if the wetness I’m wiping from my eyes is rain or tears. I’m not sure it matters, anymore. The islands are nearer, but so is the lightning. I count out heartbeats before each rumble of thunder. The crashes come closer and closer with every passing minute.