Surviving Bear Island (10 page)

If I had to eat berries, I'd eat berries. I had to eat something. The more energy I spent looking for food, the hungrier I'd get. I'd just spent a few hours crawling up that creek and had nothing to show for it, except I'd learned that my gaff only worked if the fish were close to the surface and that being calm is a good thing. And yeah, I'd left the yard and learned I had to keep leaving the yard.

I didn't have time to learn things the slow way, the way Mom said she'd become a better guitar player and writer. Slow and steady. That was fine if you weren't trying to survive. Sure, I'd concentrate on gaffing a fish if I found some, but I couldn't spend weeks figuring out where they were.

The creek flared to the right and the beach grass grew taller—neck high. I took a breath and reminded myself to be alert but calm. I took another step and a faint rustling invaded my ears. Then I saw white, and more white, and some gray. And I relaxed and just stood there. And that was my first mistake. Not looking where I was going as I backed up was my second.

A HISS
like no other hiss I'd ever heard invaded my ears. Then this prehistoric beast was stretching its neck toward me, and flapping the biggest wings I'd ever seen. When I saw its bill was open and it wasn't stopping I took a couple big steps backward to avoid being pierced or bitten or whatever this thing was planning on doing. Behind it I glimpsed three or four more just like it, only more gray than white, before I went down.

Yeah, I caught my heel on something and landed flat on my back with my head in the creek. Two thumps on my chest and the monster swan was on top of me with its hissing bill descending toward my face. I turned and felt the water invade my mouth as my head went under, the swan's bill slicing my neck just below the ear. I came up choking, swinging my arms.

The swan danced back, still hissing. I spied the end of my gaff, scooped it up and kept advancing. All five of them turned and started flapping their wings through beach grass, eventually lifting off like jets with extremely heavy cargo.

I let out a breath, felt my heart pounding. My hand moved to my neck just below my ear and came back bloody. It stung like it had been blasted by a blowtorch. I'd just had my butt kicked by a bird. Yeah, it was a big bird. But still, it was a bird.

Okay, alert but calm doesn't work every time. And swans, they're tough. I'm just glad it hadn't connected with one of my eyes.

Mr. Haskins was always telling us weird animal stories but he didn't have any swan stories that I knew of.

I kept walking and broke out of the beach grass, I wiped more blood from my neck, forded the two side channels, the water pulling at my
shins, then crossed the gravel bar. If I would've been thinking more clearly when that swan was on top of me I could've grabbed its neck and twisted. If I wanted to survive I needed to be ready to take advantage of any opportunity. If I'd been ready maybe I'd be cooking a big fat swan instead of wiping blood off my neck.

I approached the main channel of the creek and saw a splash. Like magic, a large school of fish filled the channel. I felt the power again; the whole place was humming. Only it wasn't a noise, it was more of a feeling. Like the fish were in charge. When they were here everyone noticed—the eagles, the gulls, the bears. Seals and sea lions ate salmon. And Killer Whales. Everything depended on them. Well, everything except for, maybe, killer-swans.

No fish earlier and now there were fish. I needed to figure this out.

Mom's lyrics rushed into my brain.

If you pay attention, you will know what the river knows.

I raised my gaff, brought it down hard, pulled a struggling fish from the school, then clubbed it with a rock.

I examined the gaff. The line had stretched, but just barely.

I waited. The fish returned, and I killed another. The gaff survived the second killing, but the lure was now half out of the barked-out area. I wanted more fish, but knew if I kept at it I'd lose my lure.

I cleaned the bigger of the two fish first. I took my knife, punched the tip into the opening just in front of the anal fin, and ran it up the belly, stopping just below the gills. I pulled the guts out and tossed them into the creek and let the gulls fight over them. Then I slit the bloodline, and, using my thumb while holding the fish in the water, I worked the blue-purple vein out of the fish, like my dad had taught me.

I cleaned the other fish, and paused for a moment when two bright pink egg sacs plopped out of the cavity. I knew people ate the eggs, but they looked pretty gross to me.

I tossed the eggs, along with the rest of the guts, into the creek, and rinsed my hands.

I had oil from the fish on my lips, cheeks and hands. I crunched the last of the burnt skin between my teeth. Then I sucked on the bones, trying to get every last bit of meat, but stopped short at the eyes. I couldn't take an eye out of a socket, or suck an eye out of a socket even though I knew they were packed with protein. Just the thought of it made my stomach lurch.

I threw the skeletons into the creek, and then took a long drink and splashed water on my face. I worked my hands into the sand and finely ground rock and scrubbed them like Dad had done to clean the dinner pot. I splashed some water on my raincoat and rain pants, hoping to rid them of the fish smell. Then I splashed water on my swan wound. I ran the tip of my finger along the slit in my skin, and it came back pink, coated with watery blood. And the area around the slit was sore, all the way from my earlobe to partway down my neck. I turned sideways, trying to see a reflection of it in the water but couldn't see anything. I splashed more water on it, hoping it wouldn't get infected.

I was about to head back to my kitchen when I spotted something way up the shoreline. A color that wasn't quite green just above the strand line in the trees. Almost blue, a waving blue. I'd see it and then I wouldn't. I'd see it and then I wouldn't. But one thing's for sure, I hadn't seen it when I'd walked the shoreline to get here a few days ago.

I jogged toward the disappearing and reappearing blue, keeping my eyes trained on the spot, my heart thumping through three layers of clothing, my swan bite throbbing.

It was more flung than hung. And the bottom six inches were shredded, like party confetti, or Christmas tree tinsel, but the rest of it was intact.

I reached out and pulled it from the branches. One of the sleeves caught but another tug freed it. Now it was in my hands. My throat tightened up and I swallowed.

“Dad?” I said, the word barely moving beyond my lips.

I took a breath, let it out and then inhaled. Then I yelled, “Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad!”

It was his raincoat.

Back at my kitchen, I scooped some live coals out of the fire ring with a
thick piece of bark, then went to my sleep shelter and got the fires going. I'd searched and searched, and called and called. And I'd scanned the forest floor and thin strip of beach around the raincoat for footprints but all I'd found were bear tracks. Maybe the jacket washed ashore and a bear had picked it up? Was my dad wearing that jacket when the boat flipped? I couldn't remember. I knew he at least had it in his cockpit. And I knew it was raining but maybe he hadn't had time to put his jacket on. I had my jacket on from the start because I was cold but my dad never wore his unless it was raining.

If he's around, he has to see the smoke from my fire, or at least smell it. But if he's hurt, he might not be able to walk. But I hadn't seen any tracks by the jacket, but maybe the tide had erased his tracks? Maybe it means he's coming? Maybe it's a sign, telling me to hang on because he's coming. Maybe he's walking the shoreline of Hidden Bay right now like I had a couple days ago.

Tomorrow I'd make this shelter better. More home-like. And warmer. And I'd build a shelter for the kitchen. I'd build it big enough for two.

I'm moving in, I thought. Where the fish are. Where the power is. Where my dad's coming to.

Then it hit me. Exploded in my mind like fireworks. The tide. The fish run with the incoming tide. Fishing is always better on an incoming tide, that's what Dad had said. The tide must help the salmon upstream. Push them upstream.

I'd have to tune in to the tides if I wanted to catch fish. And if I didn't catch fish … I'd be the food.

THE NEXT
morning I walked to the bay. Not right to the mouth of the stream, but down a ways. Dad said it was better for everything to just go into the ocean instead of the woods. I thought it was kind of odd but figured he knew more about it than I did. Before the accident we'd used toilet paper which we put in a baggie and then burned when we had a fire, but Dad told me once he'd run out of TP on a solo trip and used salt water.

Yeah, it was kind of gross, but clean at the same time. I had an unlimited supply of water, but sometimes had to use my hands a little more than I would've liked. I'd wash them off, scrub them with gravel, and then give them the sniff test. And if they smelled like crap, I'd wash them until they didn't.

You always hear about people using moss. I tried that, but moss just breaks apart and sticks to you in a place you don't want it to stick. And sometimes it's full of dirt or has a bunch of spruce needles in it, or tiny spiders. And that's the last place I'd want spiders crawling around.

The clouds were piling up to the south. The tide was way out—the stream channels just a series of dark slivers cutting through the seaweed. No chance of gaffing a fish for hours. I'd just have to survive on berries until the tide turned. But I had other things to do, too.

Collect wood.

Fix gaff.

Build kitchen shelter.

Fix up bedroom.

“Bedroom?” I shook my head as I turned from the water. “Yeah. Bedroom. I mean, it doesn't have a bed, but it's where I bed down. And it's a type of room. Bedroom.”

I pictured my room at home, with the dark blue drapes to keep the summer sun out so I could sleep, and heavy to keep the heat from escaping in the winter. Would I ever sleep there again? I spent a lot of time in there after Mom died. When my dad wasn't sleeping he would just sit at the kitchen table or in the living room, and he'd talk like he was just learning. One-word answers, and he wouldn't talk unless I talked to him first.

And for that whole first year I thought if Mom was gone I may as well be gone, too. Like I was part of a package deal and now the deal was off. And I thought Dad blamed me for Mom's death too. I mean, he never told me he did, but he never told me he didn't. Never. And he was right there when she asked me if I wanted to go on the ride and I chose to practice with my bow instead. The last thing she'd said was: “If you're not going, I'm gonna bike the whole loop.” And later that month my dad burned my bow and target.