Dead Reckoning

by Tom Wright

  All three forts were built on bluffs hundreds of feet above the beaches and sported a variety of armaments. The Triangle of Fire so completely discouraged unauthorized entry that none of the forts ever had to fire a shot at an enemy. For reasons similar to those that deterred nineteenth and twentieth century commanders, we worried about entering the military choke point.

  Admiralty Inlet remained as the only obstacle between me and my point of disembarkation. Despite its well-earned reputation for giving sailors trouble, Admiralty Inlet remained relatively calm on that day, almost as if in deference to our long, hard voyage. A large quantity of water from the Puget Sound basin flowed through Admiralty Inlet during tidal changes, and in calm waters we might have made the final ten miles between Port Townsend and Bush Point in an hour and a half. But naturally, on that day it took three. It seemed as if literally all the water tried to escape from the Puget Sound at the exact time we were trying to enter it.

  We remained alert as we slipped through the narrow channel, our tension growing by the moment. I felt particularly apprehensive, not just fear of the unknown, but a dread of it, as we putted south along Whidbey Island toward my drop off point.

  In contrast to the lushly vegetated and comparatively gentle slopes on the west side of Admiralty Inlet, the slopes to the east side on Whidbey Island are barren and stark. From a distance, Whidbey’s cliffs look like sand and extend several hundred feet above the beaches and run essentially the length of the island. Upon closer inspection, the cliffs are alternating layers of sand, soil, and rock extending back millions of years—a veritable play land for the geologist. Huge trees of all variety—Douglas Fir, Western Hemlock, Lodgepole and Shore Pine, Western Red Cedar, and even Madrona—teeter on the edge of the cliff. Sometimes—usually after heavy rainstorms—large chunks of the cliffs come down and take the trees with them and a new generation of vegetation takes its rightful place as guardian of the cliffs. The evidence for such calamities is visible intermittently along the beach—as fresh scratches down the cliff face lead to out-of-place mounds of earth and debris resting on an otherwise uniformly smooth beach. It may take decades or centuries for the tide to remove the evidence, but it will, and then more will fall, and it too will be removed.

  I started to feel flush as we edged to within a mile of the Bush Point Light, or what used to be a light. It was nothing more than a decrepit old shell of a lighthouse, its light not having worked for as long as I could remember. Rather than standing as a sentry against shipwrecks, it was literally a relic in someone’s back yard.

  We took turns scanning the beach and surrounding cliffs for any sign of life or more to the point, any sign of trouble. Jeff looked for a long time at our landing point, a dysfunctional old dock attached to what used to be a busy marina. Adjacent to the old marina was a relatively new facility with a boat launch and a new dock designed for small recreational boats rather than larger fishing vessels of decades past. It was in much shallower water and only extended about twenty feet from the shore—not useful for our purposes.

  Something like panic crept from my groin up my back and into my brain as Jeff turned on the Geiger Counter. Click, click, click—normal, background radiation.

  After a half hour of observation, we made the executive decision to land.

  My palms began to sweat and I sensed my consciousness slipping again. “Look!” I exclaimed, with the dual purpose of distracting myself and heading off the coming emotional storm. “I’m not one for long good-byes anyway, but I think we had better say our good-byes now. I am going to get off this boat and scramble for cover as fast as I can, and you guys need to get the hell back out to sea ASAP.”

  “Agreed,” said Jeff, as he approached me.

  He extended his right hand which I grasped and shook. We gave each other a half hug with our left arms, and I said to Jeff: “I can’t tell you how much I hope all is well with Brenda and the kids.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s the same thing I feel for you and Kate. Please be careful. I know we haven’t discussed this, but I hope we can come back this way when we get things together. This will probably be safer than Bainbridge.”

  “You are welcome here any time,” I said, sounding obligatory, but fully meaning it.

  “You know,” I said “I haven’t really thought much about what I’m going to do after I find them. If they’re all fine, what then? I guess we’ll stay around her parents’ house as long as it’s safe, but I’ve already been thinking about the next step.”

  Jeff looked at me with curiosity.

  “I told you about my friend Sean. I’d bet my last dollar that he’s holed up at his parents’ place up on the Olympic Peninsula. And if he is, he’ll be well prepared. If all else fails, I’m going to head up there to check it out.”

  Jeff and Jill all stared at me skeptically. None of us knew what to say or do.

  “Let’s just say right now that I will try to give you a month to get back to Kate’s house, but after that, don’t count on me being there.”

  “Agreed,” said Jeff. “One month, starting now.”

  Jill stood stoically looking at me. I didn’t know what to make of it.

  “This isn’t right,” she said. “You are in no condition to go alone.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Bull shit!” Sonny exclaimed as he walked up behind us, and dropped his backpack.

  “What do you think you are doing?” I asked.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “The hell you are!” I said, more sternly than I had spoken to anyone in a long time.

  “You need my…”

  “No I don’t! They do,” I said, pointing to Jeff and Jill. “They need you to help get them to the end, wherever that is. This is as far as I need to go. The rest is on me. You’ve given me more than I could have ever asked for, and I’m not letting you abandon them for me.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’m going.”

  I grabbed Sonny by the back of the head and pulled him toward me.

  “Listen,” I said through gritted teeth. “I know this island well. I don’t need your help. I don’t know what I’ll find, but I do know that they need you more than I do. I appreciate what you want to do, but it’s not right. You guys go down and get Brenda and the kids and then beat ass back up here. I’ll be waiting, and then we’ll all be back together. Jeff knows where to go. They can’t sail the boat by themselves and protect themselves at the same time. I can walk alone.”

  I looked at him as a brother might look at his beloved sibling. I let out a sigh, relaxed, and then spoke calmly. “Sonny, seriously, I want you to stay with them more than I want your help. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

  “But…”

  “I’ll kick your ass if I have to!” I yelled. “Seriously!” I punched him solidly in the chest.

  He almost laughed. “You’re in no condition to fight me.”

  “But I will, and then what condition will I be in? Will I be in a condition to find Kate and the kids? Do you want that on your head?”

  Jill began to cry.

  “That’s it!” I said harshly. “This is bullshit. We don’t have time for this. You are not going, and that’s final.”

  Sonny looked at Jeff and then Jill. Neither had any clue what to say or do. Finally, Sonny relented. “Fine.”

  “Listen,” I said, to all of them. “You are the finest people I have ever known. I love you all. You are like family to me. Do what you have to and come back. We need each other. We can get through this, damn it! Let’s go.” I turned away, partly to avoid bursting into tears.

  “Why don’t we all go?” Jill asked.

  “No way! You can’t expect Jeff to put off his…”

  “Now wait a minute!” Jeff cut in. “Don’t speak for me.”

  “Shut up! All of you. I almost got us killed in the storm, and there is no way I’m letting you do this. I don’t need any of you. Just let me off this fucking
boat!”

  They all stared at me, stunned and hurt.

  “I don’t mean that. Come on. We know what the plan was, now let’s stick to it. I’m fine. I’ve thought through every option over the last two months, and this is the only way.”

  “All right,” said Jeff. “But we’re going to wait and watch just off shore. If we see any trouble, we’re coming back in.”

  “Fine, but I’ll be out of here and up over the ridge in ten minutes. There won’t be anything to see.”

  They all moved in for one last group hug. Jill buried the side of her face in my cheek, and her silent tears trickled down my jaw and onto my neck where they cooled in the wind.

  Sonny watched the depth over the bow as Jeff eased the RY up to the old dock. Jill scanned the surrounding homes with the binoculars as I prepared to jump ship. The pilings were still strong and in good shape, but the cracked and weathered decking clung intermittently to the few joists that remained. It didn’t look safe at all, but there was no other place to disembark.

  We bumped against the dock in a place where no decking existed. Jeff gunned the motor and boat lurched forward to a safer place. I jumped over the side and onto the dock. I felt the boards strain under my weight, and I stumbled forward as my sea legs tried to compensate for a pitch that no longer existed. The weight of my pack counterbalanced my stumble and allowed me to stay on the dock.

  I heard Jill yell that they all loved me and to be safe, but I was too focused on my balance to respond. I heard the motor purr heartily as the RY labored back into the waves and away from Whidbey Island. As I looked up, all three of them watched me, focused selflessly not on their own peril, but on mine.

  I leaped from board to board without much thought as to whether they would hold. I reached the old building at the beginning of the dock and jumped over to a concrete wall that ran along the edge. I ran the length of the building and jumped.

  At 2:06 PM on day 55 I landed on the western shore of Whidbey Island, Washington.

  I fell forward on my elbows, and my face hit the sand. I held there for just a moment, digging my fingers into the sand and feeling the earth. In that split second, all my efforts and troubles and pain and fatigue ran through my body and poured onto the beach and vanished. I made it.

  19

  WHIDBEY ISLAND, WASHINGTON

  I stood, and suddenly the stark solitude and my own vulnerability hit me fully. I reached into my jacket and pulled out my pistol. I held it with both hands, close to my shoulder, and pointed up. I sidled up to the building and peered around the corner like some sort of FBI special agent.

  I scanned the buildings, and nothing moved. Nothing fluttered in the wind or skipped down the street as might be expected in such a stiff breeze. All loose objects had probably settled into shelter long ago.

  With my senses unexpectedly heightened, my ears tuned into the sound of a snaphook on a flagpole halyard banging against its aluminum pole. The hollow sound clanged rhythmically with my heartbeat. Suddenly, I became aware of everything. I heard every sound, felt every vibration, and noticed the slightest movement. I was surprised by the ease with which my body rose to a state of such awareness. Everything felt different and dangerous.

  My eyes stopped on a conspicuously small brick building at the end of the boat launch. It had been painted with the ubiquitous tan of the Washington State Parks, and the edges of its aquamarine colored metal roof had already begun the process of oxidation that, without intervention, would unequivocally lead to the building’s demise. The building had only two doors, one marked men and the other marked woman. I paused momentarily to consider the oddity of the use of the plural word men and the singular word woman. Between the two doors stood an empty fire extinguisher case, its contents stolen.

  Paralyzed by fear and apprehension, I hugged the wall. I noticed placards on the end of the building that cautioned against the use of fireworks and called the user’s attention to all manner of plant and animal life that inhabited the park.

  Suddenly there was movement in my periphery. I swung the gun around and nearly shot a small crab as it skittered between rocks. I leaned back against the wall and lowered the gun. I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself down. My head throbbed.

  I walked along the edge of the old marina building, stopped at the corner, and peered into the parking lot. There were no cars in the lot, and I could see across the way past several houses, where there were also no cars. I saw no sign of life, but I figured that if I had lived there, I wouldn’t want anyone to know I was there either.

  Between the parking lot and the main road that led away from Bush Point, there stood an old phone booth surrounded by a patch of withering dandelions. The sign across the top said: Whidbey Telecom. The red sheet metal around the bottom of the booth remained intact, but all of the glass had since been removed, probably by rocks. On a whim, I ran to the phone booth, entered and crouched inside.

  Cobwebs dangled from every corner of the booth. The phone was an old style coin-operated variety. I picked up the receiver and was stunned to hear a dial tone. I couldn’t imagine how the phones were still working with the power so obviously out, but then I remembered that was frequently the case during storms—the telephone companies had their own power generation and energized their own lines. A generator somewhere up the line must still be running, perhaps on its last ounces of fuel. Or maybe things weren’t as bad as I had feared.

  I hurriedly dialed Kate’s Parents’ number from memory and heard a few clicks followed by the timeless message:

  “We’re sorry. Your call can not be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try your call again.”

  I wondered if I got the number wrong so I dialed the zero for the operator followed by the number for information: same message at both.

  I dialed 911 and it said: “All circuits are currently busy. Please try your call again later.” Is that really the message they set up for 911, I wondered. In an emergency, I should try my call again later? What if I’m dead later?

  I moved back out into the street and scurried to the next house. As I ran fully exposed in the open, I became keenly aware of my lack of training for such a thing. I had no idea how to hold the gun, and I felt very awkward running with it. I tried to mimic the action heroes I’d seen in the movies. What else could I do?

  Next to the house, I looked back down Bush Point Road and saw the old light. The path to the light was roped off, and a sign read: “Private beach. No access. Photographs permitted but no trespassing please.”

  I darted from house to house like a scared mouse. Suddenly, I remembered that an old school friend of Kate’s had lived down there. His name was Paul Arondsen, and his family owned a service station on the highway at the top of the hill. Their station, Arondsen Automotive, was the only station in the world, as far as I knew, that still provided full service at the same price as everyone else. Stopping at Arondsen Automotive was like time travel back to the fifties. When you pulled in and ran over the black hose on the ground a loud “ding ding” echoed through the station, and a service boy with a little white cap ran out to help you. “Filler up,” I’d say. He’d lean in to look at the gas gauge and say: “Yes sir. What’s this, a 78?” The boy scrambled to check your oil, scurried around to sample the pressure in all four tires, and furiously scrubbed the windshield as the numbered wheels on the old pump clicked by. He’d pull a red rag from his pocket to rub off the stubborn bug guts, while looking nervously at the pump. He knew how many gallons every car took—he had to because the old pump would not automatically click off. They wouldn’t take tips at Arondsen’s, but they never refused the cookies and cakes dropped off by old ladies. If you had time to go inside, there was always something delicious on the counter for the taking. I remember always feeling a little bit of nostalgic sadness as I pulled away.

  I approached Paul’s house cautiously and walked around back to the garage. I peered through the dirty windows and could make out what looked like an automobile unde
r a cloth but nothing more. I remembered that he restored old cars and thought maybe I could borrow that one.

  I went to the house and looked in the back door window. The neighbors were sufficiently far away, so I knocked. After a few seconds, I knocked again. No one answered.

  I tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. I cracked the door open and yelled for Paul. Nothing. I hesitated to enter anyone’s house unexpectedly. In the current state of affairs, that seemed like a good way to get shot. So I decided to leave well enough alone and went back to the garage. It was locked, but I forced the door open and walked inside. Dust fluttered about as I entered, and some sort of rodent startled me as it ran for cover.

  I checked around near the door and workbench and found no keys. He had a great variety of tools which was not surprising given his occupation. The car cover was slightly askew, so I pulled it the rest of the way off and discovered a beautifully restored car. Mint condition. Not a car buff myself, I really didn’t know the make and model, but it was not a common car in my experience; definitely some sort of foreign sports car though. I opened the driver side door and got inside. I checked the ignition, glove box, and visor and found no keys. I looked under the seats but still came up empty.

  From the driver’s seat, I noticed the door at the opposite end of the garage was open. I got out and walked over to investigate. The door had been forced open, and as I came around the right side of the car, I noticed a piece of rubber tubing extending out of the gas tank and lying on the floor.

  So much for this car. No gas.

  I went back to the house and knocked a few more times. Still no answer, so I decided to go in. The back door opened to the kitchen. As I walked in, I noticed a faint smell of death, which gave me the willies. I yelled hello a few more times, but decided that it was probably in vain.

  The small kitchen was tidy, but dust had already accumulated on the surfaces, and the flowery wallpaper had started to peel at the edges and seams. I moved cautiously into the dining room and over to a table where a stack of newspapers sat neatly folded.