Surviving Bear Island by Paul Greci

Author:Paul Greci
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Move Books
Published: 2015-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

LATE the next day, I topped the last headland between Hidden Bay and the open coast. A breeze from the south warned of more wet weather to come.

After a long night of shivering by a small fire, the day so far had been one long trudge. Headland after headland. Climb up. Climb down. At least it wasn’t raining right now.

I’d eaten a half fish at mid-day. One fish left in the fanny pack. One fish separating me from starvation.

My blisters must’ve popped because they stung all the time. And my knee hurt steadily all day. And my neck was itching again. I was pretty much a hazard to my own health. A walking disaster. If I were a horse I’d be first in line at the glue factory.

I sat down. A rocky beach, maybe a half-mile stretch, lay below me before the next point. Once I was on that beach, I’d be outta Hidden Bay. I’d crawl if I had to.

Small goals. That’s how I’d make it to the Sentinels.

Today. Out of Hidden Bay.

Tomorrow? I couldn’t even imagine tomorrow.

I side-stepped my way down the slope to ease the pressure on my toes. I hoped I’d find a flat spot at the far end of the beach to make camp.

Small waves lapped at my boots as I walked along the shore. I didn’t see any tracks but the tide scrubbed the beaches clean every six hours or so. A peach strip of sky at the horizon separated gray rainclouds from the water. If only those clouds would stay over the water.

Then I glimpsed something shiny. It was up in an old strand line bordering the forest. I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t stopped to rub my sore knee. There were specks of plastic in the strand line but they were usually either dull in color or they stood out because they were so obnoxiously different from seaweed and driftwood. But this was twinkling, almost winking at me. Begging me to come check it out.

I dropped my gaff and spear, and walked toward the old strand line.

Where the forest met the beach, seaweed and fragments of driftwood formed a thick, bulging mat. Imbedded in that mat was a silver square a little smaller than a CD case.

I squatted and touched the object. It was some kind of metal. I pulled the knotted seaweed away, then grabbed the metal with both hands and tugged. A mass of seaweed and bite-sized pieces of driftwood tumbled forward and this rotten salty odor invaded my nose.

And in my hands, a stainless steel bowl—about a foot across and six inches deep—smattered with dents.

I sucked in a shallow breath and squinted. Besides the dents, it was just like Mom’s popcorn bowl.

Countless times I’d come home from school to the smell of popcorn. Mom’s favorite afternoon snack. We’d sit on the couch, sharing popcorn, and tell each other about our days. We still had that bowl, but Dad never used it.

My gaff and spear were half in the water, riding the incoming tide.

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