A Superior Death

Weather moving in from Thunder Bay had reached the island. Out in the lake waves rolled, cresting white with foam. Passage Island, four miles out, had vanished in an encircling arm of fog. Overhead the sun still shone but soon it, too, would be wrapped in cloud.

For long minutes A

It was not a tough decision. A

For another minute she sat in the lane, her paddle across the bow, while she ate a Snickers bar. Never once had she experienced the sugar rush of energy other people swore by as they downed their Cokes and Hersheys before slamming fire line or hiking that last twenty-five-hundred-foot ascent at the end of the day, but it was as good a reason as any to eat chocolate.

Out in open water A

Keeping the nose of the kayak directly into the wind, she dug her way forward. Water carried her up till the kayak balanced high on an uncertain escarpment. Around her were the ephemeral mountain ranges of Lake Superior. As one can from a hilltop, she saw the island spreading away to the south, bibbed now with a collar of white where waves pouring in from Canada broke into foaming lace against the shoals.

The hill of water sank, fell as if to the center of the world. Mountainous slippery-sided waves rose up past the boat, past A

Shoulders ached. Elbows burned. A

That night A

The following night she spent a more pleasant if less productive night on Belle Isle with two retired schoolteachers from Duluth who visited the island every summer to watch birds.

The next day A

An hour shy of midnight of the third day she finally slid the kayak up onto the shingle at Amygdaloid. The western sky was washed in pale green, enough light to see by. Overhead stars shone, looking premature, as if they’d grown impatient waiting for the sun to set and had crept out early.

It was June 21, A

“Need some help, eh?”

A squat round-bodied man stood above her on the dock. He had a Canadian look. The closest A

“Couldn’t hurt,” A

Landing lightly as a cat, he jumped down the four feet from the pier to the shore. A

“Thanks.” Rolling over, she pushed herself up on hands and knees, then eased herself to her feet.

“I’m Jon. Are you the ranger here?” the Canadian asked. He had bounced back up onto the dock to stand next to her.

“Just barely.” A

“Ranger station closed, eh?” Jon followed her off the dock and stood balanced on a rock, his hands in his pockets, watching as she pulled the kayak up onto dry land.

“Yup. Opens at eight tomorrow morning.” A

The Canadian was right on her heels. “Is it too late to get a diving permit? We want to get an early start tomorrow.”

A

He trotted happily down the dock to where a well-worn but clean little cabin cruiser nosed gently against her fenders. Her aft deck was piled with scuba gear: tanks and dry suits, flippers, masks and fins.

“Bobo!” the Canadian called into the cabin window. “She’ll do it.”

A

The two men were waiting for her when she reemerged into the office area. A

Cold water divers were, of necessity, lovers of equipment. A

She got the forms from her desk. “Where do you want to dive?”

“The Emperor.”

A

The Kamloops was the most dangerous dive on the island. At depths from one hundred and seventy-five to two hundred and sixty feet, the wreck was beyond the reach of all but the most experienced divers. Or outlaw divers; people who threw caution-and sometimes their lives-to the wind.

“You’ve racked up some bottom time,” A