Shining Sea

by Anne Korkeakivi

  He shakes Eamon off. “What are you? His fucking bodyguard?”

  Rufus rights himself, gets back onto his feet, brushes the sand from his pants. “Pacifist, eh?” And then, laughing, “Let’s go find the girls.”

  “Fer feck’s sake,” Eamon says before joining Rufus in walking toward the white houses, “get yerself together.”

  He feels sluggish, almost drunk with his sudden outburst. As an adult he’s thrown a punch a few times—at one girl’s boyfriend, at another’s brother. The time Georgina got into a fight with a dealer in a club. But never to inflict damage, only to deflect it. And, yet, he’s felt the urge to punch Rufus pretty much ever since they met. Why? He likes Rufus. He admires Rufus.

  The truth is that Rufus is a beautiful person, everything they all tried to be back in the days of Woodstock and the Summer of Love. If Rufus is getting money for testing out the bitumen, it’s just to fund this project. Rufus hasn’t lost hope. Rufus is a true believer. Rufus is everything he isn’t.

  He leans down and scoops some pebbly sand into his hand. He throws it at the air, feeling like a five-year-old boy again.

  * * *

  The border collie belongs to an ample, good-natured woman named Fiona. Her two sons have left home, freeing up a bedroom for the two girls. He, Rufus, and Eamon will get the floor of the sitting room. They all can have a swift shower. And then they’ll eat.

  “Ah’ve nothing in,” Fiona says. “A’ll have tae away to the shap.”

  “Do you understand anything she’s saying?” he whispers to Ghislaine. She stifles a laugh and inclines her head once: no.

  Rufus gives them a look. “We’ll bring some things from the shop for dinner, ma’am. We have to set out anyhow to talk to people before evening comes, share with them what we’re doing.”

  “Aye,” Fiona says. “But furst you best all wash. You smell like the bottom of a fishing boatie. With the fish still innit.”

  This he understands.

  To everything Fiona says, Rufus nods, adding a word here or there. The bastard probably even studied up on Scots these past six months, preparing for the journey. Rufus really is about the most amazing guy he’s ever met. And it rubs off—he’s felt better these last days than he has in years. Ever, maybe. It’s almost as though he’s courageous, too. At the very least, he’s useful.

  “Listen, man. I’m sorry about back there on the beach,” he whispers, after the girls and Eamon have withdrawn to get cleaned up.

  “Ah’ve never met an American afore,” Fiona says, putting the kettle on.

  “Don’t look at him for an example, ma’am,” Rufus says. “They kicked him out.”

  “Did they? Whit fer?”

  “Threat to the ladies,” Rufus says and claps him on the back.

  It’s good between them.

  Rufus picks up a well-worn copy of The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey from the kitchen table and begins to thumb through it, wrinkling his brow in concentration.

  He leans back in his chair and stretches his legs. “Rufus,” he says, “why didn’t you go to Oxford? You look like an Oxford man to me.”

  Rufus puts the book down. “My father thought so, too. But none of the colleges at Oxford agreed.”

  “Oh, shit.” He looks at Fiona. “Excuse me.”

  “I’m glad I went to Imperial,” Rufus says. “First of all, it’s a great uni. Secondly, I’d never have met Ghislaine if I hadn’t.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry about that, too, man.” Really, there’s nothing going on between him and Ghislaine. But she is a tonic. It’s hard to ignore.

  “Sorry about what?”

  “Here you go.” Fiona sets the teapot on the table and herself on a chair. “Ghislaine—that’s a different name. Welsh, is it?”

  “I don’t think so,” Rufus says, laughing. “Ghislaine is from France. But this journey would never have happened without her. We met at a dinner for the rowing club at Imperial. She was telling a group of us about a French windsurfer, Arnaud de Rosnay. Do you know what I’m talking about?” He and Fiona shake their heads. Rufus adds, “Sort of a cross between sailing and surfing—one person on a board with a sail.”

  “I’ve heard of windsurfing,” he says. “I meant the guy.”

  “De Rosnay? A Frenchman. Ghislaine’s family is friendly with his family. She’s been sailing with him. He took this mad ride alone over a great stretch of sea—he has the idea of windsurfing between hostile countries as a symbolic bridge between them. Sport, the arts—ways to find connections between people. I hear he’s planning to take on China and Korea next autumn. Ghislaine was explaining this, and I thought: Why not rowing?”

  “But you said the idea came to you over breakfast this past December.”

  “That’s when I figured out how precisely to use it. I was searching for Ghislaine’s number before my coffee was cold.”

  Eamon appears in the doorway, filling it with his large frame. Drops of wet from his hair trickle down his neck.

  “Your turn,” Rufus says. “Get in there and scrub.”

  He pushes his chair back. Sports, the arts. Music, for example. Yes, a little bit of him is starting to feel proud to be part of this. Not just a body.

  * * *

  They wake later than usual the next day, sun filtering through the windows. This last stretch is one of the longest and most difficult, but after talking with locals and consulting his tide charts, Rufus had decided they wouldn’t leave until 8:00 a.m.

  “We’ll be halfway into the ebb tide,” Rufus explains as they begin the now-familiar tasks of fastening their life jackets, settling onto their benches. “We’d have just tired ourselves out trying to fight our way across if we’d left earlier.”

  He takes his accustomed place behind Ghislaine. His hands are still raw, and he fondles the end of his oar tenderly before committing himself to gripping.

  They row in silence but for the sound of their oars dipping into the waters. The morning sun is soft, almost hazy. An inshore trawler passes them on its way back to the docks, its sides decorated with faded red buoys of different sizes. On its deck, a fisherman bends over nets full of prawn. Behind the helm, a second fisherman cups his hands and calls something out to them, but the words are lost between the cries of the seabirds. They raise their hands and wave.

  “Are we goin’ to stop at Rathlin?” Katie asks.

  “Do you know Rathlin?” Rufus says. “Have you been there?”

  “No,” Katie says. “Just wonderin’.”

  They row out of the trawler’s wake. “We’re going to keep to the west as much as possible, with Rathlin Island to our port side, to avoid the worst of the MacDonnell tidal race,” Rufus says. “Once we get past Rathlin, a flood stream will bring us back east, down into Ballycastle. We’ll cross those last six miles in a heartbeat.”

  Before long, they’ve left the coast of Islay behind. Low-lying clouds have moved in, and the sky has darkened so much that even he, with his sharpshooter eyesight, has trouble making out anything beyond the shape of the island.

  “Looks stormy,” Ghislaine says, her voice sounding tight.

  Katie studies the sky. “Weather changes more quickly on the islands than a baby’s temperament.” She looks down at her hands. “This will be the first time for me.” Their oars trip-trip-trip through the water. “Where’er we land now, be it Rathlin or Ballycastle. That will be ma first time out of Scotland.”

  “You’ve never even been to England?” Ghislaine says.

  “I don’t know what’s so ‘even’ about it. You’d ne’er been to Iona, had you?”

  “The Northern Irish are good people,” Rufus says, “when they aren’t killing each other. They aren’t so different from the people you’d meet in Scotland.”

  “Not to the eyes of an Englishman,” Eamon mutters.

  “They do talk quite a bit,” Rufus says. “Our friend Eamon here being something of an exception.”

  A fine rain has begun to fall, a delicate whisper acro
ss his face. It feels fresh. He’s worked up a sweat, pulling against the sea. The water seems unusually heavy this morning, like a swirling, viscous pot of heated tar—something he once spent some time on a job stirring. At least the sea smells better, salty and green.

  “Ma ma’s family,” Katie says, “were Irish Scots. Her grandfaither come to Glasgow, and met ma grandmaither while she was boardin’ for school.”

  “Where’s your mother now?” he says. “Is she in Glasgow?” Katie’s situation has bothered him since the start of their trip. In a way, it’s been bothering him since he first saw her standing behind the counter in the general store, that stern round face, the strong black coffee in a pot before her. Maybe this crazy journey looks different to a seafarer like her father. But that doesn’t explain her being left to run the store.

  Katie stares into the water. “On the island.”

  Could he have met her mom? He thought he knew pretty much everyone out and about on the island. Or is she truly bedridden, as he initially thought? It’s hard to think of any other explanation for Katie’s independence. “What’s her name?”

  “Muira,” she says moodily.

  If he could just shove the question right back into his mouth.

  Worse, he can’t even remember which one is Muira. He never could remember which one is Muira.

  “She and ma da are taking a bit of a break, what’s all,” Katie says. “They had me when ma ma was barely seventeen. He says she’s going through a midlife crisis already now, cause she started grown-up life younger.” She sticks her chin out. “They’ll be back together, and she’ll be back at the shop. It’s just one of those stupid things grown-ups get up to.”

  The clouds have gathered darker and deeper, like gray cotton batting in a giant’s hand. He scans the sea for anything. A bird, a shoreline. There’s nothing to be seen but shades of gray to one side and what looks like a curtain of black to the other.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  Katie doesn’t answer.

  The first drops fall, small and uneven. The wind begins to pick up.

  “Dirty weather,” Eamon says.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Ghislaine says. She stops rowing long enough to pull the hood of her rain jacket over her hair. “Maybe we should head for the Kintyre peninsula. That’s the mainland over there, isn’t it?”

  “Rathlin is equally close,” Rufus says. “Or at least it should be. It’s hard to see anything in this weather. Can you, Francis?”

  He pulls his oars out of the water and this time takes a good look in every direction. In the distance, a bolt of lightning lights up a shadowless expanse of sea just for an instant, but nothing else. “No.”

  “Okay. The compass says we’re headed straight for the western tip of Rathlin. We’ll miss the worst of the MacDonnell tidal race and find someplace to land there.”

  It’s disconcerting rowing through the heavy mist, unable to see the various shorelines that have accompanied them at a distance throughout the journey. At least the rain remains tentative. Maybe the worst of the storm won’t pass by their corner of the Atlantic.

  “Francis,” Rufus says. “You never told us where in America you grew up.”

  He understands Rufus is trying to distract them from the possibility of being caught in the worst of the storm before they can get to Rathlin, but he can’t offer up his past for the purpose. “You never told us anything about your family.”

  “That’s true. But Eamon knows them. Ghislaine has met them.”

  “They’re very nice,” Ghislaine says.

  Rufus laughs. “You’re very nice.” After a few more strokes, Rufus adds, “My grandfather was in the trenches in France during the Great War. He came home with only one hand and half a heart.”

  “Jesus,” Katie says. “How can you live with only half a heart?”

  “He doesn’t mean literally,” Ghislaine says.

  “I can’t tell you how it happened. He never said one word about his experience,” Rufus says. “But I can say, Katie, that you can’t live very well.”

  “He died three years ago, right about when you met Ghislaine,” he guesses. So this was the catalyst that made Rufus hook onto Ghislaine’s talk of the peace-seeking French windsurfer.

  “Yes,” Rufus says. “Two weeks before, actually.”

  “And your father fought in World War II?” he says.

  “Everyone in Great Britain fought during World War II. London, Birmingham, Bristol, Plymouth, Southampton. We were bombed, after all. Glasgow, too.”

  “The Huguenots protected the Jews in France when no one else did,” Ghislaine says. “My father was part of the Resistance.”

  He thinks of the tin canteen his mother gave him, the one he still carries, the only thing he has of his father. And his mother handing it over to him, that indefatigable determination she had. That faith that somehow he could grow up to be as good a man. “Everyone everywhere was involved, I guess.”

  And then the black curtain is upon them. There’s so much water he can barely open his eyes. His ears flood, the space down his neck into his jacket. He grabs his hood, pulls it tight. He opens his mouth for just a moment, and it fills with water. It slides down his jaw onto his chest despite his rain jacket. It batters his back and shoulders. It pounds his half-gloved hands, making the oars slippery. The sea swells, molten, almost as confused as they. It plays with them, throwing the boat up and down.

  “Row,” Rufus yells over the din of the rain. “Row.”

  He pulls as hard as he can, trying to keep his grip in the torrent. The rain is so heavy it’s hard to find the edge of the sea, to tell where the surface starts. “Fuck.”

  He can’t seem to find purchase with his oars. The water starts to break up into smaller pieces; waves toss the boat, a toy between their white-capped fingers, roiling his stomach. He doesn’t have time to lean over the boat to vomit and throws up onto his own knees, still pushing, still trying to fight back the ocean. In the madness of the deluge, its thickness, all he can make out is the shine of Ghislaine’s slicker and the white of Katie’s forehead as she leans forward and back, forward and back, bailing bucket after bucket of water, not even attempting to wield the steering oar.

  It’s not wind. It is Rufus shouting: “Can you see it? Katie, can you see it? Can you see Rathlin?”

  But Katie either can’t or won’t stop to answer. Or doesn’t hear Rufus over the noise. She is nearly out of her seat, bailing as fast as her arms allow her. The water is rising at their feet, and most of it is coming straight from the sky and not over the sides of the boat. He has never felt rain like this. It’s like being beaten not with pebbles or stones but with metal bars. It slams down on his neck and back and arms, choking him, beating at his face and arms and shoulders.

  A huge jolt, and suddenly he is in the sea.

  The cold shock of the water knocks his breath away. And the pressure is enormous, the weight of his boots, his pants, the water, everything pulling him down. He flails against the ocean. He pumps his arms, grabs on to the only solid object around him, squeezes as hard as his gloved hands allow him.

  “Grab the boat!” Ghislaine shrieks. “Not me! The boat!”

  The currach is there, in front of them, about three feet away, bobbing in the torment. It’s right side up, not capsized, solitary and empty as though laden now with ghostly passengers. Why isn’t he in it? Why isn’t Ghislaine? A wave wallops him, blinding him again. Ghislaine is moving through the water, away from him, toward the currach, and he fights his way forward after her, reaching the currach, grabbing for the rim of the boat. Water pours down his face; he peers through it into Ghislaine’s face. Each with a hand on the edge, wordless, they spin their heads around in the chaos to find the others.

  Water slaps him against the boat. He clutches on.

  There is Eamon.

  Just behind Eamon, Rufus.

  A swell slams Eamon and Rufus against him and Ghislaine. His head hits hard, by the prow. He shakes it
back and forth, clearing his ears. Somehow, Eamon manages to get hold of the boat’s rope.

  “Are you all right?” Rufus shouts. “Are you hurt?”

  Another swell pushes them together. They are debris, tiny specks in a cold, angry ocean. The rain is still coming down in torrents; there is water everywhere, above his body and below, in his eyes, his ears, his clothing. Grabbing on to the cord and then pulling his way to the prow of the boat for ballast, he kicks off his rubber boots. They sink below him, into the void. His body is already starting to go numb; he can hardly feel his freed toes.

  Ghislaine pushes past him and takes hold of Rufus. “Je t’aime!” she shouts, panting. Even drenched, her eyes are visibly filled with tears.

  Rufus reaches for her through the water. “We’re going to be okay! We’re going to be okay! As long as we don’t lose the boat and don’t lose each other.”

  Through the seething water, the four of them look at each other.

  Rufus swirls around, shouting. “Katie!”

  He has already pushed off from the boat. Treading water, he scans the horizon. A mountain of swell lifts him up and then down; at the peak, he catches a flash of white, a flash of gold. He fights his way through the undersea world, giving in to being tossed over and under. Again he sees the white. The rain is still blinding, as confusing as the sea. His mouth fills with water, and his throat. He chokes, coughs, spits, forcing the sea out of his body. Another swell, and there she is, her arms grappling with the heave of the sea, her back to him, her head turning desperately left and right, away from the currach, searching.

  “This way!” he shouts.

  It’s a miracle, but Katie hears him. They crawl through the water toward each other until their bodies collide. He wraps an arm around her torso, paddling with the other just enough to keep his nose above the water.

  “I lost the fuckin’ boat,” she gasps.

  He straps her in close to him, hugging her against the sea, a misplaced convulsive desire to laugh rocking his body. “It’s behind us,” he says. He swivels them to face the direction he’s come from. But there is nothing but water and gray. Rain pummels the sea’s surface, creating a viscous screen. He squints, lets one hand free of Katie long enough to wipe his eyes. He scans in every direction. Water.