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He looked out the window at the brilliant sunlight, noting the trees swaying in the wind. He went to the NOAA website to check conditions. Record high temperature for the date, 81 degrees, winds 15 to 25, gusts to 35. Waves 4 to 7 feet. Water temp. 40 degrees.
Conditions on big lake marginal. Suggest quiet water or a walk on beach. R.
Want to do big lake. Can we meet at ur place in 45? H.
Will do my best. R.
Ray’s rough water kayak, a boat with lots of rocker built into the hull, was already strapped to the roof of Ha
“How are you?”
“I’ll be better when we are on the water. Get changed,” she demanded, her ma
A few minutes later they were rolling toward the big lake. Ray glanced over at the speedometer. “I can’t get you off if you’re pulled over.”
She looked over at him briefly, then back at the road. Ray felt the car decelerate.
“Worried about your boat or your reputation?” she growled.
“The kayak,” he responded. “That was a special order. It would take months to get a replacement.”
She smiled weakly. “You’re one of the few people I know with their priorities straight.”
“What’s going on?” he asked, sensing the softening.
“Paddle first,” she said. “Talk later.”
“Are you sure you want to go out in this?” Ray asked as they stood and looked at the tempest—foam and spray blowing off the crests of the breaking waves.
“Yes,” she yelled back, protecting her eyes with her left hand from the blast of sand being carried along the shore from the southwesterly winds.
At the car they pulled on dry suits and spray skirts. Then they belted on towropes, and clipped and tightened their PFDs. Finally, they strapped on helmets and returned to their boats, securing back-up paddles under the bungee straps on the front decks.
“Do you want me to help you launch?” he asked.
“I can do it myself.”
They stood for another few minutes and observed the wave sets, before dragging their kayaks forward. Then they waited for a lull before quickly dropping in their boats and attaching the spray skirts. Ray was looking at Ha
Ray reattached his spray skirt, waited for the next large wave to float his hull, and fought his way into the surf zone, positioning his bow perpendicular to the breakers. At times, he had to separate the surges crashing over his boat with his broad paddle to keep from getting hammered in the chest.
Using almost vertical paddle strokes, he slogged forward, trying to get to the deeper water beyond the breaking waves, the boat rising up and crashing through the marching walls of water. As he neared the top of a large swell, it began to break, standing his boat vertically, then toppling it as the stern slipped violently backward, the end catching on the bottom as the full weight and force of the wave crashed into him.
Upside down in the swirling water, he attempted to roll, only to get hit halfway up by the next breaker. Submerged again in the sudden darkness and quiet, he reached for the release strap on his spray skirt and tumbled out. Catching the bow toggle with his left hand, he allowed the waves to carry him toward shallow water. When his feet touched the bottom, he walked toward shore, keeping the lake at his back and the boat to his front. He emptied the boat—now filled with water and weighing hundreds of pounds—on shore.
Then it was back out into the torrent, joining Ha
Eventually, as they bobbed out beyond the surf, Ha
“It’s starting to drop,” he said, after several minutes.
“I know. We got the best of it. You got tumbled.”
“Too shallow. Face in the sand. Couldn’t roll.”
After a while, Ray stood, grasped Ha
They returned to Ray’s house in silence, both physically exhausted and Ha
“What’s going on?”
“Everything,” said Ha
“I left the ER, walked outside. People were on lunch or breaks, celebrating the sunshine and the warm weather. Then a helicopter landed. It all came rushing back. The slap of the blades, the screaming jet engine, the blood, the carnage. I fell to my knees, people rushing to help me. Walking me back inside.
“All I wanted to do was get a bottle of Scotch and obliterate everything. That’s what I did in Baghdad; that’s what I did here.” She paused briefly. “I called my therapist in Boston. Probably talked to her for an hour. She walked me back. But Ray, I’m like that guy in the ER. I’m damaged goods. I’ll always be an outsider. I don’t think I can find a normal life. I listen to my colleagues talk about new houses, or daycare, or vacations. Just the usual, nothing wrong with it, but it’s not my world. I wanted to yell and scream about a world I couldn’t change. Then I texted you.”
“And now?”
“Better, at least for the moment. I’m like an epileptic after a seizure. Exhausted. Can I have a glass of wine?”
“You’re asking for alcohol.”
“A glass of wine, maybe two. Nothing more. Just some wine, food, music. Being here with you. Being quiet, maybe a walk later. Can I spend the night? I don’t mean to make you my minder, but this is what I need. I trust you. I think you are a survivor, too.”