Rachelle McCalla - Survival Instinct

“Agreed. Pull hard on the left,” Scott instructed, then shouted a goodbye to his mother, who waved before crossing her arms and hugging herself again.

For the next several minutes they paddled in relative silence, breaking the stillness only with the occasional, “keep her steady,” or “harder on the left, I think we’re drifting.” But as they moved farther out from the protection of Devil’s Island, the wind picked up and the waves began to get higher, lapping ever closer to the rim of the boat. At the same time, the lake seemed intent on moving them straight north, out into the open sea, and Abby found herself exerting more effort in keeping them steered in the right direction than she did in moving them forward at all.

“How are we doing?” she called back, glancing over her shoulder just long enough to see the autumn-clad form of Devil’s Island looming behind them much closer than she’d have liked.

“We’re making headway. Slow but steady. How are your arms holding up?”

“I’m doing fine. I’ll probably be sore tomorrow, though. How are your arms? You already carried this canoe down the hill-you’ve got to be getting tired.”

“I’m fine. I haven’t gone as soft as Mitch would like you to believe.”

Abby heard the strain behind his lighthearted words, and she dug a little deeper with her paddle, wincing as the seasoned wood moved against the skin of her palms where blisters had already begun to form. She tried to adjust her grip to ease the pain, but with the next dig, she still felt it. Rather than focus on her pain, she resolved to keep her eyes on their elusively distant goal.

“Harder on the left if you can,” Scott called from behind her. His voice rose in pitch, his tension more obvious now. The waves splashed higher, jolting their boat and limiting their progress, sending the fragile craft rocking unsteadily. Abby wished she could find the rhythm of the waves and move with the water, but she feared the only way to do that would be to go with the direction of the waves and head out to sea. And there was no way she was going to intentionally head out to sea.

“Steady now. If you can, I want you to paddle with smaller, faster motions for a minute here while I try to bail out some of this water.”

Water? Abby looked behind her and saw five or six inches of water pooled just beyond the toes of her boots, hampering their progress and holding them lower, inviting more water to slosh in. She could feel the rush of adrenaline hit her veins as she did her best to follow Scott’s instructions.

Without the second paddler, the boat nearly stilled on the lake. Abby wondered if they were even moving forward at all. “How far do you think we’ve gone?” she called behind her. “Are we halfway yet?”

She could hear Scott dumping water into the lake-either that, or it was the splash of water coming in over the side of the canoe. Since they were headed nearly straight south, the westward-moving waves slapped them square on the side, spilling into the boat as often as not. Abby bent her head around and looked behind her.

Scott’s face grimaced with pain as he plucked up his paddle and dug deep, propelling the little boat forward-by feet now instead of inches. “We’re moving forward,” he grunted, “we’re not turning back now.”

But Devil’s Island still loomed closer than Rocky. Abby set her jaw and paddled harder. Scott was right. They weren’t going to turn back. There was nothing for them back there, and they were just as likely to run into trouble on their way back as forward. They might not be any closer to Rocky than Devil’s, but somewhere along the line, they’d passed the point of no return.

The wind and waves mounted higher against them. When Abby looked to the sky, she realized the gray clouds had grown dark and threatening, and the brisk breeze they’d been experiencing all day had blown up a gale that threatened to propel them into the open sea. As the boat lurched in the raucous waves, Abby’s stomach somersaulted up her throat.

Water splashed into the boat in waves instead of rivulets. The puddle in their vessel grew and the tiny craft settled deeper into the lake, its sides lower, an easier target for the surf that seemed intent on swamping them. Abby paddled in near-frantic terror, but still she felt the boat stall whenever Scott paused to bail out the water.

Slowly they crept forward. As they drew closer to Rocky Island, Abby could see the waves sending up spray as they smacked against the huge boulders that gave Rocky Island its name. The thought hit her like a slap of cold lake water. Somehow, they’d have to navigate through the dangerous rocks in order to get to the island.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Abby recited the words in her head, finding a rhythm with them, digging deep with her paddle and forcing herself to ignore the blisters growing on her palms. She wished she’d thought to tie her paddle to the boat, but it was too late now, and she wasn’t about to shift her hands too much for fear of losing her oar to the lake.

The wind ripped the hood from her head and tore her hair free from the braid where she’d bound it, sending long strands of her dark locks flinging to her face, covering her eyes. She shook them free, only to have them flung at her again.

“I’m going to bail again,” Scott called, and Abby switched her paddling pattern, feeling the muscles in her shoulders tighten into knots with the quicker, shallow movements.

It seemed like an eternity later when he shouted to her again. “Okay, dig deep now. We’re getting closer. We’re really getting closer.”

And they were. Already Abby could see massive red stones hiding under the surface of the clear water, and had felt the thin underside of the boat bump against them more than once as the waves peeled back, revealing the menacing boulders lying in wait to tip them, or to smash their tiny boat to bits.

“Paddle harder. Paddle harder,” Scott called, as Abby’s strength sagged and fat tears rolled down her cheeks from the pain in her shoulders and hands. She had to paddle harder. She didn’t have a choice. They were still several hundred yards from shore.

The bumps came more frequently now. At any time, they could hit a rock hard enough to crack a massive hole in their boat. Abby kept praying, kept digging, and nearly screamed when she felt the numbing water slosh against her legs.

She looked back. The middle of the canoe held nearly a foot of water! “Don’t you want to bail?” she nearly screamed, as the wind ripped the words from her mouth and carried them away. The sky had grown more sinister, the tempest violent.

“Too late for that now. We’re almost there. Just dig!”

Abby dug, tears spilling unchecked down her cheeks, mixing with the sea spray and the waves. The water sloshed higher, clenching its frozen fingers around her legs, sending searing pain through her bones from the fierce cold. The boat was so low in the water. So low, and so cold.

The red domes of the boulders poked their moss-streaked heads from the water like vicious trolls intent on sinking them. As each wave pulled back, another menacing boulder would leer up at them before the next wave sent them sloshing over its skull, the flexible birch yielding to the pressure, nearly folding, threatening to snap.

Three hundred yards. Two hundred. Abby could see the trees, the red bluffs and the rocky shore, before the wind whipped her hair into her eyes, blocking her view, blinding her to anything but the ice-cold water and the fear.

She never saw the boulder that tipped them. All she knew was that one moment, her muscles were in tight knots of effort, and the next, her whole body was thrown into the frigid lake and the water closed over her head.