Page 2 of Untamed Coast

Marco dropped the microphone, picked it up, pressed and released the mic key. Couldn’t he transmit on any frequency in an emergency? He pressed again. “Can you hear me? Please, if you can give me your location…”

Static hummed and popped, voices lurking within the white noise like the distant murmur of a river’s melody. He was losing her.

There was something in her voice, her helpless tone, the desperation. It was Michelle, right before the end, brittle and weak, the awful hospital machines beeping and clicking, counting down her final breaths.

“Are you still there, honey? Are you with me?”

A familiar weight of hopelessness settled in his chest. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips, a silent prayer carried away by the gusts of wind and rain that rocked Radio Flyer against the dock.

Most boats didn’t even have an SSB radio. Marco’s was a holdover from his ham radio days, a way to pass the time in the evening at anchor. Single sideband, or SSB, allowed him to talk to other radio enthusiasts much farther away than conventional marine VHF radio. She could be hundreds or thousands of miles away, the radio signal bouncing off the ionosphere, an electronic echo from far beyond the horizon. Marco scribbled the frequency on a scrap of paper.

Removing his headphones and switching radios, he tuned his marine VHF to channel sixteen, the Coast Guard emergency channel. “Coast Guard Sector Juneau, Coast Guard Sector Juneau—motor vessel Radio Flyer on channel one-six.”

He recounted the distress call to the Coast Guard radio operator.

“Radio Flyer,” the operator replied, the words distorted. “You are broken. Can you call on a landline?”

“Negative landline,” Marco insisted. “No cell service. I’m in Pelican. Repeat. Pelican.”

The SSB radio hissed softly, offering no sign of life beyond the wall of static. How had he heard her? Thousands of channels buzzed in the radio band he’d searched. She had said “off the boat,” but if she had fallen overboard, how did she have a radio?

The wind howled, the boat jerking against the dock. Mooring lines creaked, straining angrily against their cleats. At the top of the ramp, a solitary light illuminated the waterside window of Pelican’s library.

“Understood, Radio Flyer,” the Coast Guard responded. “We have no report of anyone in distress or missing in the area. We’ll monitor all frequencies and let you know if we hear anything.”

“Sounded urgent,” Marco replied. “And someone else on the frequency was trying to rescue her, but this weather is terrible.”

“Understood,” the operator replied. “Could have been skip from a distant transmission. Keep us posted if you hear anything more.”

“Will do,” Marco answered. “Radio Flyer standing by one-six.”

Marco powered on the electronic chartplotter, stark white light washing out his night vision. He zoomed in on the digital map to an area about the size of his normal radio range. Dozens of islands stretched along the uninhabited rugged shore of the Gulf of Alaska.

Low power.

Marco double-checked the power setting on his SSB radio. He had accidentally transmitted on low power, and she had still heard him. She probably had some kind of handheld walkie-talkie, and they’d heard each other. She had to be nearby. He zoomed the map in closer, shrinking his search area by half.

If he was right, she was out there somewhere, in the cold water, terrified, perhaps injured, but alive. Even if she made it to shore, she’d be soaked and in danger from hypothermia, bears, and dehydration. Whoever was trying to rescue her was in danger themselves in these conditions.

Marco lifted the snow globe he kept at the helm, the cool glass dome a grounding presence in his hands. Sparkling snowflakes twirled calming circuits through a liquid sky. His fingers traced the rough lines of the inscription on the underside of the resin base: Michelle Franco 1961–2015.

“Come get me.”

Wherever she was, this woman was in danger.

Chapter 2

-.. .-. --- .-- -. .. -. --.

Archipelago West of Chichagof Island, AK

1938—Joe Baxter

Joe Baxter had made this trip countless times.

As he rowed beyond the incessant clamor of the stamp mills at the gold mine, a quiet calm settled on the water. The waning gibbous moon sagged low in the sky, threatening to disappear behind the islands to his southwest and take his light with it.

Oar handles pressed against his palms as he pulled with increased vigor, lengthening his stroke, loosening his grip so they rotated smoothly in his gloves. The oarlocks rattled and creaked in harmony with each tug, a percussive symphony amplified by the hull of the small wooden rowboat.