by Tyler Keevil
‘Me, Tracy, and Albert went on a fishing trip here, a year or two back.’
‘Romantic.’
‘Just listen, will you? The ports on the islands are all pretty small: just little marinas, sometimes with a hotel or grocery store or a few restaurants. We could stop in at one of them to declare ourselves, and stock up.’
‘How the hell are we going to declare a stolen horse?’
‘We don’t. But at these little ports, they don’t even board your boat. Albert just went up to the harbour master’s office with our passports, last time.’
‘What about the boat? The boat’s stolen, too.’
‘It ain’t reported stolen, yet. And hopefully never will be.’
‘Could we just hotball it all the way? Straight shot.’
‘If we get spotted in American waters without declaring ourselves, we’re done.’ I glanced over at Shenzao, lapping away at her water. ‘Plus our girl needs food.’
‘How long you reckon it’ll be to Olympia?’
‘Depends on the currents. But it’ll be an overnight trip, for sure.’
The two of us stared intently at the map, like a puzzle we could figure out. As we stood there, I felt warm breath on the back of my neck. Shenzao’s snout appeared between us, still dripping water. Jake reached up to stroke the bridge of her nose – the long part that horses like to have scratched. That was the first time she’d allowed it without shying away.
‘What do you think, girl?’ he asked.
She snorted, spraying spittle over the map and making the corner flap. It was a disdainful sound, as if she were dismissing both our options, our entire plan, and all such human foolishness.
Chapter Twenty
We headed south, past the long landspit at Richmond and the airport. The planes coming in to land seemed to materialize out of the cloud layer as they descended, and those taking off slow-faded away, turning into phantom shapes before vanishing entirely. We kept five miles offshore. As the day progressed the wind picked up, which often happens around mid-morning. The waves came at us head-on: these hump-backed swells that rolled smoothly beneath the hull.
When we reached the north arm of the Fraser, I reprogrammed the navigation system, plotting a course southwest. I wanted to stay in Canadian waters for as long as possible and the way to do that was to hold close to Vancouver Island. The route I had in mind would also take us towards the west side of San Juan Island, and Roche Harbor. That was where we had docked during our previous trip. It was smaller and quieter than some of the other harbours, and the customs officials were less likely to take an interest in us or our cargo.
I had only crossed into American waters that one time but Albert, being a stickler for protocol, expected you to learn something on the first go, and commit it to memory. So I was confident about the procedures, and I wasn’t worried about the officials boarding us (Albert had told me that hardly ever happened), but there was still the issue of passport control.
‘What’s the deal with your record?’ I asked Jake.
He’d pulled his chair over to the heater, and sat huddled in front of it.
‘I can enter the States, but they might be suspicious.’
‘If I take your passport up with me, will there be a red flag on it?’
‘Reckon so. That’s how it works, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
‘I’ll just stay here with the horse. You said they don’t search the boat.’
‘Just looks odd. Guy on a boat, all on his own.’
‘So maybe you’re going to pick up some clients, for recreational fishing.’
‘Maybe.’
I steered in silence for a minute, considering that. There was probably a better story, but I was too tired to concoct it just then. The lazy bucking of the boat and the endless grey swells were hypnotic and I had only grabbed a few hours of shut-eye before we’d set out on our misguided endeavour. I stood slumped up against the wheel and at times it felt as if my grip on it was the only thing keeping me on my feet. My head kept slow-dipping, almost like the horse when we’d drugged her, and each time it did I would jerk awake and shake it off.
Jake must have noticed this because he offered to take the wheel.
‘I got it,’ I said.
‘You need rest.’
‘What I need is coffee.’
‘The horse kicked in your stove. Besides, you can’t stay up for two days straight.’
‘We sometimes do during season.’
‘Good for you, Captain.’
He adjusted the heater, cranking it up. If he’d kept pressing me I would have kept resisting – that’s just how it worked with us. But seeing as he’d let up, I started thinking I was only saying no to be contrary.
I said, ‘Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit.’
Jake hopped up, as if he’d been waiting for that. He adjusted his bandana and flexed his fingers, all ready to take over. I talked him through the controls – steering, throttle, kill switch – and then showed him the GPS display: a black-and-white LCD screen. The course I’d plotted showed up as a series of dashes leading south in front of the triangle representing our boat.
‘You keep us on that course,’ I said.
‘You got it. It’s like a video game.’
‘Don’t just stare at the display.’ I looked out the window, and pointed to a landmass on Vancouver Island – a humped hill bristling with Nordic pines, like a big green hedgehog. ‘You can steer just left of that headland. Use that as a marker.’
‘I got it – I got it.’
I sat down in the recliner, my body loose and clumsy, just this collection of bones and flesh that sort of collapsed, as if all the controlling strings had been snipped. After a minute I closed my eyes, and as soon as I did the vibrations of the engine changed tone.
‘Hey,’ I said.
Jake had his hand on the throttle.
‘Just opening her up a bit,’ he said.
‘Wastes gas.’
‘We got plenty of gas, you said.’
‘We got enough to get us down there, if we conserve it.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He eased up again. ‘I was only testing her out, Aunt Nellie.’
‘Just keep her steady, and on course.’
I watched him a while longer, to see if he’d try anything else. When he didn’t I closed my eyes and dissolved back into the chair, feeling the ocean roll beneath us like time, ebbing away.
When I awoke, I saw Jake standing at the wheel, silhouetted by a slate-grey sky, striated with rain. It was a hazy and surreal image and at first I thought I might be dreaming. I stood up and pawed at my face, as if I could physically wipe away the fogginess of sleep.
Jake looked back at me.
‘Like a baby,’ he said.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
I remembered the headland, which I couldn’t see. Out the starboard window another landmass had appeared: an imposing stretch of granite bluffs, rising from the water like big grey golems. Off to port side was a boat, maybe ten miles distant. I looked at the GPS. No dashes appeared in front of our position.
‘Where are we?’
‘Your course finished so I just kept her steady.’
‘I said to steer for the headland.’
‘We passed the headland an hour ago.’
‘Goddammit, Jake.’
I hadn’t plotted the whole course yet. I’d needed to check the charts first.
‘We were supposed to bear east.’
‘What’s the big deal?’
‘You crossed the border.’ I yanked on the throttle, dropping us down to neutral. ‘We’re in American waters.’
I saw the realization of that register on Jake’s face: a slight widening of the eyes and raising of the brow, this theatrically stunned expression that he’d perfected.
‘You were the one asleep for two hours,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do, when the captain is a
sleep on the job?’
‘Wake me up.’
‘We had to cross over eventually.’
‘There’s etiquette, man.’
‘What are you talking about, etiquette?’
‘We’re supposed to call in to declare our presence, and raise the Q flag, for one.’
‘So raise the Q flag.’
I swore at him and then just began to swear in general and was heading for the door intending to fetch the Q flag from our storage locker when our VHF radio crackled, and a voice came over it: ‘Ahoy, Western Lady. Do you realize you’ve passed into American waters?’
We both stared at the radio. Then I looked again out the window, to that vessel off the port side. It sat long and low in the water, with a squat rectangular deckhouse atop it. Red and white colouring. Not a fishing boat.
The call came again: ‘Coast Guard hailing Western Lady. Do you copy?’
I made an infuriated sound and shook my bad hand at Jake, in a way that was meant to be threatening. Then I picked up the receiver of the VHF and thumbed the talk button.
‘This is the skipper of the Western Lady, Timothy Harding. Sorry about the oversight – our navigation system is on the fritz so we weren’t aware we’d crossed over the border yet.’
‘Not flying your Q flag is a fineable offence, Captain.’
‘I’ll get that up right now, sir.’
There was a pause, another crackle of static.
‘Where are you clearing customs, over?’
‘Roche Harbor.’
‘What’s the purpose of your visit to the US?’
‘Just a little recreational fishing, now that herring season has ended. We’re with the Westco fleet, out of Vancouver.’
Another pause, and burbling static. I figured they were conferring, and possibly checking up on the vessel.
‘All right, Harding. They’ll be expecting you. And get that Q flag up.’
‘We’ll do that now, sir. Thank you, sir.’
They signed off. I put down the receiver and went over to Jake and cuffed him on the back of the head, like I might have done when we were little. A sort of open-palmed slap.
‘You told me to follow the course,’ he said, resentfully. ‘I followed the course.’
I just shook my head and pushed out into the rain, which fell in cold and bitter slivers that pricked my skin and made me even more irked. Jake asked what I was doing and I told him I needed to put up the damned Q flag. When I reached the ladder, I turned and shouted back at him over the wind: ‘It’s the stupid mistakes that will cost us, Jake!’
It was something that Albert often said. For a while, out there, maybe I thought I was Albert, and I have to admit it was nice: being in charge, bossing Jake around. But I doubt he even heard me say that. I know now it’s not true, anyway.
Every mistake costs you. Stupid or otherwise.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was two o’clock by the time we reached Roche Harbor: a collection of white clapboard-and-shingle buildings nestled in a horseshoe-shaped inlet. As we came around the point the wind died down and the waves flattened out. The water looked tarnished and dull, like rumpled tin foil. I’d taken over at the helm, after Jake’s little mistake, and by way of penance I’d sent him below deck to board up the broken window. He’d been hammering away down there for the past hour.
When we were about half a mile from dock the hammering stopped and I heard Jake’s boots on the upper deck. The door opened and he came in along with a blast of icy wind. He was wearing a yellow slicker and gumboots I’d found for him in the storage locker: a spare pair that Albert kept on hand. For a change Jake didn’t look completely out of place on the boat.
‘That’s all done,’ he said, wiping rainwater from his face.
‘What’s Shenzao up to?’
‘Just sitting there, like the Sphinx.’
‘Peckish?’
‘Her or me?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘I found some old crackers. We had us a little snack.’
‘We’ll get food at this stop.’
He hung up his slicker and came to stand with me by the helm. We were both acting as if it was all fine, what we were about to do. The port was creeping closer. We’d be there in maybe a quarter of an hour. I throttled down, slowing our approach.
From what I recalled, the customs office was halfway down the main dock. Further out, there was a particular slip where foreign vessels were supposed to moor, and from there the skipper walked up to the office. Other passengers weren’t allowed to disembark.
I explained that to Jake, and then added, ‘If they’re going to search us, it will happen then. And if they do that, we’re done.’
‘Will they know the horse is stolen?’
‘Won’t matter a whit. You can’t bring livestock down here on a goddamn boat.’
‘I still think we could forget the stop, and sneak on by.’
‘Sure – like you snuck us by the Coast Guard.’
‘That was plain bad luck.’
‘We make our own luck, on this boat.’
That was another one of Albert’s sayings.
‘All right, Captain. It’s your call.’
I told Jake that he could help me dock, and that he could wear that same slicker with the hood up, in case they were observing us from the office. Then, while I went to clear customs, he could fill the water tank and stay with the horse, to keep her from kicking up a ruckus.
He said, ‘They’ll know there’s two of us.’
‘That’s the idea. Nobody tries to dock a boat this big alone. They’d suspect something for sure.’
‘But we don’t have two passports. You can’t use my passport.’
‘I ain’t going to use your passport.’
He had a think about that. It didn’t take him long.
‘Oh,’ he said, a little sadly.
As it turned out, the dockside harbour master’s office was closed, and so was the customs office next to it. The same building housed both offices: a wooden shack with shuttered windows and a corkboard outside the door, where people displayed notices about boats and marine gear for sale, and local restaurants advertised their fare. A sign tacked to that same board said to check in at the customs office up in the harbour, beside the hotel. I didn’t expect that, but it seemed fortuitous: it must have been something they only did during the off-season.
I began the long walk towards shore, my boots drumming the planking. The marina was laid out like a big TV antenna: one main dock with smaller ones branching off. It had about a hundred and fifty moorage slips, some long-term, some overnighters. The time we’d visited before, back in August, every single slip had been full: pleasure cruisers, yachts, tour boats, charter fishing vessels. While Albert barbecued, Tracy and I had sat on deck, sipping soda, just soaking up the sights. It was a carnival atmosphere, during summer. But not in February: most of the overnight slips were empty, and in the long-term slips the boats were battened down to weather the winter. Among the pilings I heard the squeaking of the fenders as they shifted between the hulls and docks. It all felt dead and lifeless and eerie, as if summer had been sealed into a casket.
I crossed the gangway to the landspit, which ended in a set of cobbled steps and some kind of memorial garden. A paved walkway led me between rows of shrubs, their branches bare and grey as bone. Over the walkway arched a wooden canopy, and each cross-beam had been decorated with a famous phrase or quote. One of them stuck with me: Fare thee well and if for ever, still for ever, fare thee well. I’d never heard it before, and I didn’t particularly get what it meant, but it made me feel melancholy as all hell. On the other side of the garden stood the Hotel de Haro, an old timber-frame classic with wrap-around porches and a colonial feel, and across the street was a more modern brick building that had an American flag jutting straight up from the rooftop. The customs office. I headed in that direction.
Inside, it smelled of window cleaner and wood polish. I’d expected a
reception area of some sort but the door actually opened directly into the Customs Agent’s office. The desk was opposite the entrance. The man behind it, portly and grizzled and bald, stood up when I entered. He didn’t look surprised to see me and he didn’t look all that happy about it, either.
‘You the guy from the Western Lady?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘Coast Guard called ahead. Said some cowboy forgot to fly his Q flag.’
‘Stupid mistake, eh?’ I said, making a big deal of removing my jacket. ‘The darned Satnav was acting up, and in the mist I lost track of our position on the charts.’
It was peculiar: as soon as we started to speak, I stopped being nervous. I’ve hardly ever been in trouble in my life, since I’ve hardly ever done anything wrong, and that showed in my face and my demeanour and how I conducted myself. I lacked all guile and cunning.
‘Lucky they didn’t sting you with a fine,’ he said.
‘Oh I know it. They said they’d call ahead.’
I’d brought the boat’s registration papers with me, just like Albert had done, and I passed those over to the official. He sat back down to go through them, and copied some of the information into an electronic form he had open on his computer. It was all ready to go, since he’d known to expect us and seen us arrive (the office had a clear view of the harbour) and apparently didn’t have much else to do.
‘You the owner?’ he asked me. ‘You Albert Finnegan?’
‘No, sir. I’m the first mate. Albert’s driving down to meet us in Seattle. Just finished herring season, and we’re going on a little rec fishing trip with our families. But his wife, she don’t take so well to the open water. So they’re driving.’
In some ways, that little lie felt more dishonest than stealing the boat: Evelyn would have had my hide if she’d heard I was making her out to be some weak-bellied landlubber.
‘Is that right?’ He didn’t seem particularly interested in the story. He turned to the next page, scanning the details, and asked, ‘You a registered crew member?’
‘Yes sir. Timothy Harding. That’s me.’ I knew it was on the papers, somewhere. ‘Me and Albert, we came down here last summer. So you might have a record of that.’