Finding Jim (19 page)

My 16-year-old body pulsed. The wide wooden floorboards of the sailboat creaked under my weight as I shifted to relieve the pressure on my seat bones. I hugged my knees and dug my chin into the sleeve of my soft Icelandic wool sweater. A curtain of my tame, long brown hair slid across my cheek marking a trail of salty residue, moss-covered earth and sweet rain. Candlelight danced with the roll of the waves, throwing angular shadows onto seamless faces. The faces talked and laughed, but I was overcome by the beating of my heart and the heat radiating from my skin.

Jim sat above me and rocked forward when he spoke so that the energy from his voice and his laugh drew me like a magnet. I wished I had made him laugh. I wished I were the funniest and most charming person in the group that night so his blue eyes were fixed on me. I wished my stomach weren't so knotted with fear so I could look at him. He was so near, and the energy between us made me dizzy.

His thigh brushed my shoulder, and I stiffened. I held my breath and sat up. At the next opportunity, I convulsed with laughter so that I could graze my shoulder against his leg. The contact left me breathless. I slid my hand down my leg and placed it flat on the floor. Each time one of my peers roared with laughter or demanded the spotlight, I inched my hand closer until the length of my little finger trembled against the instep of his stocking foot. My blood cooled and my breathing muffled the sound around me. In one motion I lifted my hand and rested it on the top of his foot. His flesh tensed beneath my touch. Then his fingers kneaded my shoulder. We did not talk or exchange a look, and that night I lay awake in my sleeping bag for hours.

The next evening, he washed dishes by moonlight on the stern. I stood in the shadows for a few minutes and then reached for the drying towel. Excited chatter bounced around in the cavernous black air as the rest of the clients boarded the inflatable boat to go swimming in a lake onshore. The inky water bubbled under the thrusting bow, and the full moon's silver light slid over the young faces like silk.

“Don't you want to go with them?” he asked me.

“No. That's okay. I'll stay and help you.” I cleared my throat.

Voices skipped back to us on the water when the others splashed ashore. Their laughter faded as they pushed their way deeper into the dense, dark rainforest. The rhythmic lapping of the salt water against the side of the sailboat took over again, and the space around me expanded with the lack of human sound. An eagle called in a series of chirps and then settled into a rising scream. The wind rustled. We were anchored in the Queen Charlotte Islands, and we were alone. My skin tingled with the anticipation of romance. I stayed quiet so as not to break the spell.

When the last dish was dried, Jim looked at his watch and said, “There's still time if you want to go to the lake.”

“Okay.”

We canoed from the sailboat to the shore. I dug my paddle deep into the water and pulled back hard. I wanted him to feel my strength. I vaulted out to ease the bow over the rocky shoreline, and the cold ocean fingered its way up my pants to my knees. He tied the canoe to a log before we entered the tangled forest. I spread out my hands in front of me and focused on the fallen trees and slippery moss so that I did not have to slow my pace or cause him to reach out a helping hand. At the lake, I crept out along a log cantilevered over the water. He swept his hand through the fresh water and sucked in his breath from the cold. I dived in and heard his whoop as I came up gasping.

Three months after Jim was killed, Eric offers to take me back to that magical place. Along with close friends Mike, Rose, Susan and Ken, I fly to the Queen Charlotte Islands to meet Eric and Trish on their 60-foot charter sailboat to retrace the steps Jim and I took 17 years before.

The small plane bumps down onto the gravel runway in Sandspit as Kenny Loggins wails into my ear the final lyrics of his ballad, “Celebrate Me Home.” I click off the Walkman. Sing me home. I wonder how the hell I will ever find home again.

Australian Aboriginals practise a tradition of navigation in the wilderness, of singing a description of landmarks along the way. If they get lost, they retrace their steps, going from singing landmark to singing landmark. They call it a “songline.” My heart returns to the Queen Charlotte Islands to find a familiar landmark, to find its song, to find home.

If life were normal, I would get off the plane, squint to make out Jim jaunting toward me, grinning. In his arms I would feel whole again. He'd lead me by the hand to our kayaks loaded with food and camping gear for two weeks. We'd push off into Hecate Strait, eager to be together and alone with the eagles, mossy forests, seals and ancient totems of the islands.

But it is Eric who greets me. He feels solid as I wrap my arms around him. I look over his shoulder, just in case.

I sink into the folded sails on the bowsprit of the boat, suspended above the never-ending ripples of ocean, numbed by the sea breeze, just like the good ol' days. Dying light paints silhouettes of mountains against the sky, and the salty air coats my soul in calm. Waves slap the hull, keeping beat with the whine of the motor. Wind carries fragments of laughter, and I turn my head to watch Eric and Mike goofing around at the stern. If he were here, Jim would be with them.

As the remains of K'uuna Llnagaay village come into view, the setting sun outlines the peninsula in silver. Glistening black, long-necked cormorants torpedo into the water, hunting for fish. I strain to see the lumbering bodies of the sea lions, but they have moved on and no longer call K'uuna home. My songline is here, though. I remember.

Our canoe bobbed right below the sea lions' rock, and Jim and I fought the waves to stay out of diving range of the huge mammals. I crinkled my nose at the combined smells of wet fur, excrement, urine, salt and fish. We shouted over the constant guttural roar. “Look out!” I squealed and grabbed the gunwales as hundreds of pounds of sea lion launched off the rock into the waves with a hoarse roar and rocked our canoe. Pfooof. Another sea lion surfaced behind Jim, making him jump. I shivered with fear and excitement. It wasn't just the sea lions. The combination of Jim's confident, strong body, his clear way of thinking, his ability to take the right action and his gentle, honest eyes drew me like a magnet. I wanted to be a part of his energy.

Eric lowers the kayaks into the water and we pair up to explore. Mike ends up in a boat with me. “Oh, Rosie,” he laments to his wife, “it's our anniversary.” I offer to switch so that they can be together, but Rose is set in her single kayak. I grow quiet. Mike leans over and kisses her. I struggle to breathe as if I am in a smoke-filled room.

That evening, the couples rub elbows around the dinner table, laugh and talk about future trips, plans. I float with no sense of attachment to what is going on around me. Up on deck, alone, I spin around to see which bird shrieks from shore. A seagull, I think. The noise continues, so I investigate with Jim's binoculars. On top of a tall tree, I spot the telltale white head. A bald eagle, screaming at me.

“I'm going to go for a little paddle.” I stroke my throat so that my words won't sound so strangled. There is a pause.

“Do you want someone to come with you?” Rose's voice echoes from below.

“No, no. I won't be long.” I balance on the stepladder and stretch one foot out to hook the cockpit of the kayak. Once settled, I push away from the sailboat toward the shoreline. I stab at the water with each stroke. Harder. Faster. I clunk the paddle down in front of me, bury my face in my crossed arms and try to cry. Get it out. The kayak bobs. Whoosh. What was that? I lift my head and jerk it around. A glistening nose disappears below the surface behind me. I scan the water like a searchlight. Whoosh. There he is again. I could touch him with my paddle. He floats up and down with the waves, but his wet eyes, like black glass marbles, fix on me.

“Hi,” I whisper and smile. “Are you fishing?” He tips his head back and sinks. I grip my paddle and steer closer to shore. Every so often I hear the water break as he surfaces behind me. I look where I'm going. “You sure have a beautiful home.” Rock rises steeply from the ocean in layers of colour: burnt orange, brown, ruddy green, yellow. Reflections dance on the water. I paddle for another half an hour, talking to my friend, until I no longer hear his breathing. I stretch my neck to see behind me, but he is gone.

I turn back to the sailboat and make out figures on the deck. As I get closer, I clench the paddle. So many people on deck. Everyone. What's wrong? I paddle faster. Mike leans over to catch my bow and at the same time swipes the back of his hand across his eyes like a windshield wiper. He smiles.

“Hey, Sue.”

The rest of the group shuffles over to the side of the boat, shuddering, pressing their fists to their eyes and laughing. I jump from face to face and see the same thing. Red, puffy skin around their eyes. Relief.

“You know, we all just ended up on deck and we saw you out there and we looked at each other and just burst into tears.” They gently lay hands on each other, smiling. “Yeah, wow, can you believe it?” They look back at me. I try to smile and be happy for them, but inside of me a voice yells, “Shit, I missed it. Shit. I wish I hadn't missed it.” I missed sharing my grief. I feel so alone with my pain, and it is a relief to share it with others.

Before I fall asleep that night, Eric and Trish tiptoe to my bed, hug me and whisper, “We love you.” I sob because I am fortunate to have loving friends. And I sob because I know a big part of my survival will be up to me alone; they will not be able to help, no matter how much they want to. I've seen people as brittle as fallen leaves with a vacant look in their eyes. I used to wonder what happened to them. I know now because sometimes the only way I can bear the grief is to harden my heart. I'm scared. How will I survive as a warm, loving person? How will I not become a bitter old widow?

The next day, rain pounds the aft covering. Mist veils the islands. My throat aches. Ken comes over, “Are you okay?” His concern breaks the dam holding back my tears. He holds me, and I crumble with gratitude because he does not run. The intense feelings of grief scare me, so I reason they must terrify others. Rose and Susan hurry to my side and cradle my hands. Part of me does not want them to suffer my grief, and part of me wants to grip them with all of my strength so they cannot leave. It is a relief to have a safe place to let go of the pain.

We don raingear and head to shore to walk among the remnants of the village of T'aanuu Llnagaay, whose descendants are represented by the Eagle Chief. Ghostly indents in the grass mark the outlines of longhouses. Sunlight streams through the trees and lights up the almost translucent yellow-green moss blanketing the fallen house posts. I gaze up at the cedar trees, run my fingers through the thick tickly moss and remember holding hands with Jim. Here. My feet stumble and grief pulls me to my knees. I am not religious, but I pray. “I don't know if I can make it, Jim. I try. I am grateful to have experienced this place with you. Your presence is so strong, but I want to reach out and touch you, feel you, hold you.” I push my face into the moss and let it absorb my tears like a sponge might.

The next morning I wake up more fatigued. It is exhausting to hold back the pain, and it is exhausting to feel it. We cruise toward the two-thousand-year-old village of Nan Sdins on the island of SGaang Gwaii, the southernmost point of the archipelago and the gateway to the open waters of the Pacific. SGaang Gwaii means “Wailing Island” and is so named because of the nine-metre waves that rush through a hollow reef beside the island, making the sound of a wailing woman.

When I was 16, I canoed around the island to hear the wailing woman. It was dark and the ocean swirled and reared up in angry, foamy waves. I pushed as close to the reef as I dared, held steady and listened, rising up and down with the enormous swells, looking out at the Pacific Ocean. Whooosh. The water forced its way through the reef with a deafening roar and retreated with a high-pitched moan. I watched, mesmerized. The wailing woman. I have no desire to hear the woman this trip. There is enough wailing going on inside of me.

Eric nods to me as he steers the boat toward one of the islets off SGaang Gwaii called Gordon Island. “One more stop today.” I turn away and swallow hard.

Jim led four of us on an overnight kayak trip to Gordon Island. After setting up the tent, I explored my temporary home. I wandered from one side of the island to the other in less than five minutes. My toes stopped on the edge of a slab of glistening black rock pummelled smooth by the Pacific waves that went on forever. I closed my eyes, raised my face to the salty wind and invited the roar of the water to bruise every part of my being into life. In the approaching darkness, I eased myself down onto the barnacle-covered rocks. I cradled my head and gazed at the sun disappearing into the sea. He sat down beside me. “It's beautiful.”

“Yes.” When I turned to look at him, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. My eyes stayed closed and it was his voice that brought me back.

“You know this can't go anywhere.”

When my eyes flipped open, I was grateful for the darkness. “Yes,” I agreed.

But my chest ached as I hugged my knees and stared at my feet.

“It's not so bad out here because it's a bit of a fantasy land. But back home, the reality is that you are in high school and I am travelling the world. Our lives are so different and eight years separate us.” He pushed a piece of driftwood into the sand, and pain plunged into my heart.

“You know, he wasn't perfect,” Jim's mom's words claw at my memories.

“No, he wasn't, but he was perfect for me,” I mouth to the wind. The truth is that I want to remember him as perfect. I want to remember our relationship as perfect.

This memory of Jim breaking my heart when I was 16 does not fit into my fantasy. I massage the truth until Jim promises he will return to me when I am older. He will save himself for me because we are soulmates.