13.
Ray was irritated at being dropped off to rest while Sue was going to Grand Rapids to continue the investigation. Distracted, he rattled through the refrigerator looking for something to eat.
Standing at the chopping block next to the stove, he cut two slices from a loaf of peasant bread. Ray poured some olive oil into the pan, adding one slice of bread. Then he added slabs of a local raclette cheese and topped it with the second piece of bread. He carefully tended to the sandwich, turning it often to toast it perfectly on both sides.
Settling at the kitchen table, Ray turned his attention to an article in the
New Yorker,
his lunch beginning to cool. The sound of a slamming car door was followed by a vigorous knock at his front entrance. Ray waited, accustomed to his friends just pushing the door open and walking in. With the second round of knocking, Ray went to the door.
Hannah Jeffers confronted him; he could see a yellow and white kayak strapped to the top of a Subaru wagon on the drive.
“You busy this afternoon?” Jeffers asked, sliding past him into the great room. “Looks like you’re having lunch.”
“Just about. Do you want a cheese sandwich?” Ray asked pointing to the one on his plate.
“That’s way too big. How about half?”
“You got a deal. It was more than I should eat,” he said, getting a second plate. “Want an apple? I’ve got some Honey Crisps.”
Hannah nodded to the affirmative. “I just came by to ask you if you would go kayaking with me on Lake Michigan. I wasn’t expecting to get fed.”
“How did you find me?” Ray asked, sitting at the table again.
“Real hard, Google, then Google Maps. You’re on my way to the big lake.”
“So according to you medical types I shouldn’t drive, but you think that I’m competent to
kayak?”
“Can’t drive? I don’t understand,” said Jeffers.
Ray explained.
“That’s your internist, Feldman. I never said anything about a possible stroke. Saul is a lovely man, but he’s overly cautious. Is there the possibility that you had a stroke-like episode? Yes, but a stroke, extremely remote. He was probably trying to find a way to get you to slow down. And from his point of view, that’s good medicine.”
“So I’m clear to paddle?” asked Ray, knowing that he was still sore, but that he would happily endure some pain to get on the big lake on a sunny winter afternoon. This would also give him the opportunity to search many miles of shelf ice on the off chance of stumbling onto Tristan Laird.
“Trust me. I’m a doctor. If anything does happen to you, well, I’ll do what I can. And if that fails, I’ll give you absolution.”
“Are you a….”
“No, but when I started college, I was a drama major. I’ll give a convincing performance.”
“You’ve got your drysuit?” asked Ray.
“Everything is in the car. Just point me in the direction of some place I can change.”
“There’s a bathroom and a guest room through there. Take your choice,” said Ray. “I need to check the weather on NOAA and local radar. Then I’ll get changed.”
“Go ahead, I’ll clear up the dishes and get my things,” she said.
• • •
Thirty minutes later, dressed in drysuits and mukluks, they were off-loading the kayaks—long, slender boats designed for use in big waves and rough water—and carrying them to the snow-covered bank of a small stream. Then they donned thick neoprene spray skirts, stepping into tunnels and doing a little dance as they struggled to pull the skirts to their waists. Next they added bright yellow life vests, the pockets on each stuffed with gear.
“Looks like we’ll have the lake to ourselves. No other kayakers.”
“Not many people venture out in these conditions,” said Ray.
“What are you going to do about a hat?” Jeffers asked.
“When the water is this temperature, I always wear this neoprene hood. You never know when you’re going to get capsized,” said Ray. He pulled his on, centering the opening, exposing little more than his eyes, nose, and mouth.
“You’ve persuaded me to do the same, I’ll just have to live with helmet-head hair,” she said. She pulled off a black stocking cap and retrieved a heavy neoprene hood from her gear bag. “Are you going to wear a tow rope or put it on your deck?” she asked.
“Better to wear it,” answered Ray as he turned on and checked his VHF radio, returning it to the top, left-hand pocket of his life vest. Once they had all their gear attached to the decks of their boats—extra paddles, hydration packs, cell phones in watertight bags—they slid into their boats and secured their spray skirts to their cockpit coamings, creating a watertight unit. After pulling on thick neoprene mittens, they seal-launched into the water, sliding down icy banks. They carefully negotiated the twisting path the stream had cut through the shelf ice that extended more than fifty yards out past the beach. The forward edge rose more than ten feet above the water, built up by floating ice being piled up during violent winter storms. Finally they emerged onto the big lake, the enormous stretch of water, the curve of the planet visible on the vista where the dark water met the lighter sky.
“Wow, this is incredible. The view always knocks me on my ass,” Hannah observed. “Where to, chief?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“You’re the guide.”
“Let’s start toward that headland, Empire Hill.” Ray motioned with his hand. “That’s about 10 miles. We can turn back whenever you’ve had enough or it looks like the weather might be changing.”
“What did NOAA say?”
“For the rest of the afternoon, winds from the southwest at five to ten, waves one foot or less. But there’s a system coming in and things should start picking up before dark. As you can see, given the steep face of the shelf ice, there aren’t many places to bail out along here if the weather deteriorates. We’ve got to be vigilant.”
“Does your radio have the ‘weather alert’ feature?” Hannah asked.
“It’s turned on,” he answered. “That said, sometimes the weather is on you before an alert is issued.”
They started north, moving quickly in the gentle swell. Ray was happy to note that Jeffers was a strong and skilled kayaker. He usually picked his paddling companions carefully, especially in conditions that might become challenging or dangerous.
“I’d like to do a couple of rolls. Will you spot for me?” asked Jeffers.
“Are you ready for an ice cream headache?” Ray responded.
“I haven’t rolled in cold water for a while. I need to know that I can do it.” She pulled some nose clips from her vest, checked the position of the release strap on her spray skirt, and looked over at Ray, who had positioned the bow of his kayak a few paddle strokes off the center of her boat.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, prepared to quickly move in and give her his bow to pull up on if she missed her roll.
Jeffers sat up straight, slowly took a couple of deep breaths, then made a forceful lean to the right, capsizing the boat. She almost righted the boat on her first attempt, falling back at the last moment. Ray watched as she set up a second time and successfully rolled. “What’s the problem?” she asked, after coughing a couple of times.
“You brought your head up too fast the first time.”
“Damn, I always do that when I’m out of practice. I’m going to try a couple more.”
Jeffers performed a series of smooth, elegant rolls.
“Those looked good,” said Ray. “It’s a good thing to practice, especially in these conditions. It’s easy to ride up on some submerged ice and get flipped.”
They headed north again, picking up the pace to warm up after her submersion in the icy water. They stopped along the way to explore some of the bigger ice caves, Jeffers capturing interesting configurations with her camera, Ray carefully checking for signs that Tristan Laird might have been there. He saw none.
The hours quickly passed as they paddled and played along in the ornate ice sculptures. Suddenly, Ray’s radio came to life. He stopped paddling and listened to the alert, which was repeated several times.
“I didn’t get all of it,” said Jeffers.
“They’ve just posted small craft advisories, looks like that front’s coming in sooner than expected. We better get going,” Ray cautioned.
They turned south again.
A thin overcast had moved in dulling the delicate afternoon light, and beyond it Ray could see a long band of heavy dark clouds. The wind had started to pick up, and the wave heights were increasing. What had been a leisurely paddle became a dash for their launch site before the conditions completely deteriorated. There was little banter; just two seasoned paddlers focused on getting safely back on land before dark.
The sun disappeared in the gray overcast as the wind and waves increased.
14.
As they began to battle the wind and surf, they moved into deeper water, away from the reflecting waves coming off the ice shelf. Ray took a more direct heading on the curved bay toward their launch site. Slowly the miles slipped by and their destination grew larger.
Ray panned the shoreline, making adjustments to their course and constantly monitoring his companion, who seemed little bothered by the rough water. Every time his bow broke through a wave, Ray was showered by a freezing spray of water. Ice built up on the deck and clung to the lines, bungee cords, and his spray skirt. When he could clearly see their goal, little more than a mile away, he started to relax a bit, knowing that in about fifteen or twenty minutes they would be safely on land.
He was thinking about Tristan Laird, wondering where he was, and hoping he wasn’t camping out in an ice cave. As his boat rose and fell in the increasing swell, he scanned the shoreline, his attention suddenly pulled to objects and motion on the water near the shelf ice. He turned his bow in that direction, trying to understand what he was seeing, his vision often obscured by the waves.
“We’ve got company,” he shouted. “Let’s take a closer look.”
They started paddling toward the dark forms, kayaks. As they neared they both could tell something was wrong.
“Looks like trouble,” Jeffers yelled.
As they approached the kayaks they could see four boats, three with occupants, one capsized. The paddlers were struggling to control their boats in the surf and the swirl of reflecting waves rebounding off the shelf ice. As they drew closer, Ray could see a figure bobbing in a life vest near the capsized kayak. The other members of the group, fighting to remain upright, could offer little assistance to the swimmer.
Ray and Jeffers sprinted toward the form in the water.
As they drew closer, Ray began to assess the situation. A group of kids, teenagers, in small recreational kayaks. They appeared to be wearing ski parkas under their life vests. He imagined that they were probably wearing jeans, nothing to protect them from the effects of the frigid water.
Ray took control of the scene, yelling at the three boaters to move to deeper water, away from the swimmer, a girl who was flailing around in the surf, struggling to keep her head above the surface. Ray went to retrieve the kayak, while Jeffers paddled to the swimmer.
He tried to right the craft. Without floatation or bulkheads, the water-filled boat barely broke the surface. Ray tried to pull the kayak onto his foredeck, but quickly realized that he didn’t have the strength to fight the hundreds of pounds of water that flooded its interior.
He pushed it off his deck.
Ray paddled next to Jeffers, who was holding onto one of the straps of the swimmer’s life vest at the other side of her boat. He ramped his boat against hers.
“What’s her condition?”
“Deteriorating fast, barely responsive. It’s rush, rush.”
“We’ll get her on your deck, and I’ll try to tow you the rest of the way. Think you can hold her?”
“Yes. She’s small.”
Ray reached over Jeffer’s deck, using her kayak to stabilize his. He pushed his neoprene mitten through a strap on the girl’s vest and pulled her small frame across the decks of both boats and then positioned her on Hannah’s boat, her chest flat on the bow deck, feet dangling, one on each side, facing Hannah.
“Sure you can hold her?”
“Yes.”
While they were still ramped, Ray pulled out his radio, and keyed the transmit button, repeating “Mayday” three times. There was an instant response. He gave their location and nature of the emergency, and waited briefly for a comeback.
Then he pushed his boat forward, clipping his towrope to the loop on the front of Jeffers’ boat and paddling away from the shelf ice, the line spooling out of his tow bag, then growing taut, several feet of thick shock cord at the end of the line dampening the pull of the rope. He yelled at the other three kayakers to follow them, hoping that they could make it in safely without anyone else capsizing.
He had about a mile to cover, ten or twelve minutes in flat water, but in these waves and wind and towing a bow-heavy boat, he struggled to move forward. Ray could feel the adrenalin kicking in as he struggled through the deepening troughs, hoping that Jeffers would not be capsized. Ray glanced occasionally back at her and the other paddlers.