Page 13 of Untamed Coast

The snow globe barely stirred as the vessel glided through the water. He steered Radio Flyer out of the protection of Klag Bay and routed his autopilot to a spot east of the group of islands he’d already searched. There were no logs or other debris ahead as far as he could see, and no other boat traffic showing up on radar or AIS. Looked to him like he was the only soul for miles.

Let’s go find her, babe.

No sign of the curious flat-black RIB from the previous day.

Every island he passed, he carefully studied the shoreline with his binoculars.

Nothing.

The SSB radio hissed softly in the background. The static was making him crazy, constantly baiting him to pick tiny sounds out of the din. He needed a distraction.

Marco tuned his FM radio to KCAW out of Sitka. The announcer was in the middle of the daily “Muskeg Messages.” “…dentified as Crystal Pyke of Juneau is missing and presumed fallen overboard off the coast of Chichagof. Any vessels in the area please be on the lookout and contact the Coast Guard with any information.”

The data block across the top of the map display predicted forty minutes to reach his destination.

The stabilized binoculars smoothed out the gentle rocking movement of Radio Flyer, giving Marco a sharp, steady view of the shoreline of the small island. It was rugged and heavily forested with offshore rocks and jagged terrain.

Something turquoise caught his eye on the rocks near shore. Something man-made.

Marco put the boat in neutral and focused his binoculars.

He held his breath.

It looked like fabric…could it…?

Nubby texture, splayed over a rock. Marco followed the fabric down into the…

Old gill net.

Damn.

Marco continued around the other side of the small island. He doubted it had ever been inhabited.

No sign of the missing girl. It had been almost two days since he heard the distress call. If he was right and she was onshore at Radioville, she’d still likely be alive.

Marco ran his hand across the smooth dome of the snow globe at the helm, tracing its curve with the edge of his thumb. Inside, glittering flakes swirled gently around the little totem pole and the painted boardwalk. Michelle’s voice rose in his memory, soft and steady: “We’re retired now, babe. There’s no rush.”

But there had been. They just hadn’t known it.

They’d bought Radio Flyer when life was busy and the future felt endless. Weekends turned into years spent chasing tides through the familiar waters of Puget Sound—lazy drifts through the San Juans, afternoon anchorages in the Gulf Islands, the occasional civilized pause in Victoria.

Those days had been full of plans. Alaska was always on the horizon—someday, they’d said. Someday when work slowed down. When time was finally their own.

Then the diagnosis came and everything sharpened. They retired early, not because they wanted to, but because they had to. Someday turned into now. When the remission came, it felt like a second chance.

They’d made it as far as Alaska. Barely.

It was supposed to be glaciers and icebergs and rapids and sea lions barking under a full moon. Mornings wrapped in blankets with steaming coffee, watching eagles dive and whales breach and brown bears pluck salmons from streams.

It was supposed to be theirs.

Now, Marco sat alone at the helm, the snow globe cradled in his hands like something fragile and sacred. The glass was cool, but his chest burned. He could still hear her laugh echo across the deck, still picture her leaning on the railing, her watch glinting in the golden light.

There’s always a rush.

Sometimes you just don’t know it until the moment’s already gone.

Every hour he’d thought they had was already behind him. Every minute left was borrowed.