Page 9 of Untamed Coast

He nudged her around so she was facing him and put the other hand softly on her shoulder. The moonlight brought a glow to his deep blue eyes and emphasized his strong jawline. “I want to apologize for the way I acted out on the water today. I’d had a little too much booze, the downrigger was acting up, and the stress got the best of me. I appreciate what you do out there. I think you’re the best boat driver in the fleet.”

It’s the same every time. Don’t fall for it.

Still, his tone carried a sober sincerity, a rare warmth. She realized she hadn’t seen him with a bottle since they got to the cabin. He had actually praised her boat handling. It took her back a decade to when they’d first met, before all the drinking and the fighting. They’d been happy once, but it seemed like another lifetime, with a different person. They stood awhile in silence looking out at the ripples on the sparkling water.

A seal chuffed nearby.

How long would this version of him last? She’d seen it before—a spell of warmth and repentance, a calm in the eye of the storm—only to be followed by another horrible outburst. It was a little worse each time, and she’d started to wonder when he’d go too far and kill her.

Chapter 7

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

West Shore of Chichagof Island, AK

2017—Marconi Franco

The hum of the diesel engine resonated through Marco’s boots as he turned the wheel to starboard. He savored the familiar pulse of Radio Flyer’s twenty tons of fiberglass, metal, and wood gliding across the water at his command.

Seas were still choppy, but the wind had died down somewhat as the last vestiges of the storm moved on to the east. A narrow passage between two small islands gave Marco a close-up look at the shoreline. Rocks, trees, a tiny beach. No sign of anyone onshore. No red metal roof.

The hiss and whistle of SSB static droned on. “Status?” A woman’s voice broke through the monotony. It wasn’t her.

Marco turned up the volume.

“All tucked in, but lots of traffic.” Male voice. Clearer.

“Copy.” The woman again.

“Bogey still in the area on AIS.” The male voice again.

Short, crisp, vague, with no attention to radio etiquette. The memory of the distress call filtered through the shrill buzz of static. Who were these people using this obscure SSB channel? What were they doing?

He tuned his main VHF radio to the non-emergency Coast Guard channel to check in.

“Radio Flyer, I have your report from yesterday. We’re monitoring all frequencies for any distress call. So far we’ve heard nothing.” It sounded like the same Coast Guard operator as the day before. “Possible what you heard was long-range propagation.”

Not likely.

“I was transmitting on low power,” Marco replied. “Signal had to be close. Are you telling me I just happened to pick up some other random woman in distress at the same time you’re searching for one right here? There aren’t fifty people within a hundred miles.”

“Notify us if you hear anything further,” the operator replied. “Coast Guard standing by one-six.”

Marco flipped off the VHF radio. Clearly the Coast Guard was searching the water for a body, not the land for a survivor.

He was on his own.

His rig would have a much better chance to pick up a signal if he was near the transmitter. He would cruise the most likely area of coastline and listen up close with his gear. He doubted the Coast Guard would be able to hear a tiny walkie-talkie from some big central station miles away.

Radio Flyer responded to Marco’s precise steering, sliding through a precarious maze of rocks and shoals. He kept a sharp eye on the sonar for any uncharted obstructions beneath the surface that could damage his prop or hull. Nothing shallower than three fathoms so far. The marine maps of this area were inaccurate—based on paper charts from century-old surveys. If he ran aground, rescue would be slow in coming.

Two more islands in his search grid turned up nothing. With daylight lasting until almost midnight, he figured he’d be able to cover a third of his target area. The woman was out here, shivering onshore somewhere, hungry and desperate. He wished he could do more, but searching after dark was dangerous and futile.

A bright-red-and-white Coast Guard rescue copter streaked overhead, skimming the tops of the islands he’d just searched.

His stabilized binoculars smoothed out his view of an oceanside beach—a collection of man-made debris, fishing floats, chunks of net, an old bucket, a lidless cooler—nothing that showed any signs of a woman waiting to be rescued.

Radio Flyer rounded the rocks at the end of the beach, turning in to another narrow passage.