The sea had always been my sanctuary. I learned to fish as a boy with my parents on the north shore, back when the land lay quilted in potato fields and thick woods. Our bungalow was modest, a plain rectangle with open rafters and furniture softened by decades of salt air—yet it overlooked a beach that stretched empty for miles in either direction. My mother favored a simple drop line, refusing the mechanical fuss or rods and reels. Together we hauled in sand sharks, porgies, and the occasional blowfish in spring, when the water still carried winter's bite.
As I grew taller, I claimed my own spinning rig. A small rowboat let us drift beyond the shore's reach, its five-horse power motor pushing us slowly toward hidden pockets of current. years go by and I grew sharper and happy with my teenage friends, pulling flounder and blackfish in spring, porgies and fluke through the long sunny hot summer.
Days gone and i become a single man and junior-high science teacher, I owned my first real boat. I had bought the neglected tri-hull las fall for almost nothing. Squirrels had chewed the lounge seats to shreds; the deck sagged with rot. The 150-horspower now, but reliable and the hull gleaming again.
Memorial Day weekend found me awake before dawn. I had hitched the trailer the night before and loaded rods, tackle, ice, and a cooler of soda. At the deli I ordered my usual number one Special—two fried eggs and bacon on a hard roll—and a Virginia-ham sub for later. The bait shop supplied a dozen sand worms, heavy Virginia hooks, and extra sinkers; blackfish lived among the rocks and claimed tackle without mercy.
At Stone Harbor ramp the launch went smoothly. Four ramps, ample parking, and the engine started on the first turn of the key. I idled through the channel at the twelve-mile limit, eating my breakfast in the new captain's chair while the windshield framed the world ahead. Beyond the stone breakwaters the bay lay almost glass-calm, waves no higher than an inch or two. Perfect fishing weather.
I pushed the throttle forward. The tri-hull lifted onto plane and surged west toward the boulders off Crane Point, home to the biggest blackfish the country has ever known. A mile out, a glint of yellow far offshore caught my eye. Yellow did not belong on open water. I altered course and raced toward it at nearly forty knots.
Through binoculars the shape resolved into a sinking boat. A young woman clung to the wreckage, shivering uncontrollably, her clothes soaked with seawater. The early-season water hovered near fifty-five degrees; hypothermia would claim her soon. I cut the engine to a crawl, hooked her shirt with the boat pole, and hauled her aboard. She was a dead weight, soaked through . In the tiny cuddy I cut away her wet layers, slipped her into my emergency sweatshirt and oversized rain suit, then wrapped her in the old beach blanket. By the time I noted the wreck's coordinates, the boat had slipped beneath the surface.
she stirred weakly against me. "Please... no police," she whispered, voice raw with cold and fear.
I did not know why I listened. Something in the plea, fragile as sea foam, made me. I turned the bow toward home, the woman shivering in my arms, and wondered what current had just carried us both into deeper waters than I had ever fished.