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Chapter Two

Friday morning, 11:18 a.m., fourteen and three-quarters hours earlier

Emmy, the park ranger

I head to the pier where Raymond Zhao and the two cooks organize a stack of coolers. We don’t use the truck to help campers to their site, but Raymond Zhao has so much stuff, I don’t see a way around it.

“Hey there,” I call, trying to act casual. It takes all my willpower not to tell him I’m a big fan.

All three men turn. Raymond clocks my gun, then stands a little taller. Behind them, the whitecaps on the ocean are bigger than they were an hour ago, when their boat docked. The next boat bobs on the horizon, moving slowly over the swell, the passengers in for an even rougher ride than the previous bunch. Above us, the ravens circle, scheming for a way into the coolers.

“I’ll give you a ride to camp, if it will help?” I point to my UTV, parked on the beach by the kayaks.

“That would be great. Thank you,” Raymond gushes like I’ve offered him my kidney. “Is it okay if we take a few more minutes to get organized?”

“Take your time. I’ll be by the Visitor Center when you’re ready.”

He puts his hands together in prayer and bows to me. I do the same, then feel incredibly stupid. I rush over to a woman who’s fanning a map in my direction.

She and her friends are looking for a hike recommendation, something that’s realistic for them to do before they catch the 4:00 p.m. boat back. With this swell, the storm that’s brewing, I’m not sure they’ll be able to send a boat back today. If Packers sent day-trippers out this morning, though, they have every intention of bringing them back this afternoon. No one wants an extra sixty people trapped on the island without tents and provisions.

At the information area beside the pit bathrooms, I lay out a map and show them how to get to Potato Harbor, the farthest-west tip along this strip of shore.

“It’s about five miles round trip, with sights of the ocean the whole way. You should have no trouble getting back in time for your boat. There’s a chance it might leave early, so you probably want to be back by two thirty, just in case. Still, you’ll have plenty of time.”

They thank me and head toward the trailhead by the Visitor Center. They’re quicker hikers than I would have expected, making it up the first pitch in under three minutes. They stare down at me from above, waving before they disappear through a meadow of foxtail toward the coastline.

Sam says goodbye to another group of day-trippers, this one in jeans and sandals, before jogging over to me. It’s amazing how ill prepared some visitors are, while others have sophisticated enough gear to summit Mount Everest.

“All good?” he asks.

I give him a thumbs-up, telling him my plans to drive Raymond Zhao and his chefs up to camp. “You good to welcome the next boat with Phil or Randy?”

The volunteers love to greet groups. Even more than the radios and the uniform fleeces and polos, it makes them feel like part of our team. They include more information than most visitors want on how to distinguish great and soft brome, the history of the Chumash, the storm petrels. But like I said, we couldn’t run the island without them.

“Sure thing. Just going to do a quick round of the lower loop first.” Sam shakes his head before jogging away. “Raymond Zhao.”

Raymond and the other two men have made no visible progress since I left them. I sit on a picnic table, resting my feet on the bench and letting the sun warm my face. There’s a calm on this island that I’ve never felt anywhere else, and I’ve been to lots of beautiful places. I got my start at Yellowstone, then did internships in Tasmania and Zanzibar. I’ve always loved islands, specifically their isolation, their independence. Santa Cruz is different. The island rose from the ocean within the last five million years and has never been part of the mainland. None of the Channel Islands were. There are foxes, lizards, and mice that don’t exist anywhere else. It has one of the richest marine ecosystems in the world, and one of the healthiest kelp forests. Even if you know nothing about the Chumash who originated here, the ecology or zoology of the land, or the topography, you can feel how special this place is.

The next boat is closer now, probably fifteen minutes from shore. I’m getting antsy, sitting here waiting, so I decide to clean up the Gordons’ yard. Their house sits beside the Visitor Center, the only evidence, other than the rusted farm equipment, of the island’s past life as a cattle ranch. The Gordon family sold the last of their interests on the island to the government in the late ’90s, but they still come out to use the house from time to time. I slip through the gate and bend down to collect the rotten oranges that have fallen from the tree. It’s not our job to maintain the house and its yard. I like the Gordons, though. The home-baked cookies and artisan hot chocolate they gift me doesn’t hurt.

As I’m pulling oranges from the tree, I hear someone clear their throat.

“Emmy, is it?”

I nod, wondering how he knows my name, then remembering the very obvious tag on my uniform. Nonetheless, Raymond Zhao’s taken the time to know who I am. “We’re all set if that ride is still for offer.”

“Sure, it’s still for offer.” I wipe the dust from the orange rinds on my pants as I head toward the gate. I don’t even realize I’m talking until I hear the words gush out of me. “Sorry, I never do this, but I’d be kicking myself if I didn’t tell you how much I love your show. My mom and I watch it together. It’s our ritual.” I don’t tell him that my mom’s up in the Bay so we watch it from 350 miles apart, that it’s strengthened our relationship and given us something besides the past to focus on.

Raymond Zhao puts his hand over his heart and bows his head slightly. “That’s so nice to hear. Thank you.” Even though people must tell him this every day, it feels sincere.

Raymond Zhao hops in the passenger seat of my UTV, and we make the short drive down the dock to grab his guys and their gear. Behind them, the boat coasts toward the dock. I don’t like to skip orientation. We keep track of the campers, but we don’t register the day-trippers. I like to take stock of who’s here. Most visitors are harmless, overprepared. Others have an energy that puts me on edge. Like those three stoner guys on the first boat. I like knowing whom I need to protect and whom I need to monitor.

I swing the UTV around on the beach and head down the path past the lockers and pit bathroom, the abandoned farm equipment, the Gordons’ house. The UTV is so loud that I don’t realize Raymond has asked me a question until he taps me on the shoulder and shouts into my ear. Instinctively, I slow down.

“How long have you been working here?”

“About three years,” I shout back, pressing my foot a little harder on the gas. He continues to engage me in conversation, so I slow down again.

“Couldn’t have picked a worse place to work. This view really is just oppressive.”

It takes me embarrassingly long to realize he’s joking. “The absolute worst,” I say.

We drive along the wood-chipped road toward the kayak center. I salute Joaquin, the head kayak guide, as we approach the huts. He shoots me a little smile that both makes my heart flutter and causes my stomach to sink. But I don’t need to think about Joaquin right now, because we’re already barreling down the road in the direction of the campsites.

As I drive past the lower loop toward the upper, I answer Raymond Zhao’s questions as directly as I can. I’m from the Bay. I don’t get specific, how we moved from Santa Rosa to San Jose so I could finish high school somewhere that no one knew me. While I always wanted to work with the environment, I didn’t realize being a ranger was a possibility until I did an Outward Bound in college. He’s unfamiliar with Outward Bound, so I talk about the program instead of me, how it takes adults and teenagers of any experience level into the wild and teaches them how to thrive. I don’t tell him that for me, it wasn’t about thriving but surviving. I do tell him it changed me. Fundamentally. Constitutionally. That I’m the woman, the ranger, I am today because of that summer in the woods. There aren’t woods on this island, other than two small copses at Delphine’s Grove and China Pines, and the eucalyptus trees and pines at the campgrounds. Still, the island continues to form me, reshape me like the waves reshape the coastline, eroding what no longer serves me. I know he can’t hear me over the rush of air. I’m not really talking to him. I’m talking to Limuw, this home I’m so grateful for, this land that continues to save me, day after day, round after round, year after year.

By the time we reach the upper loop, the second boat is surely docking. I help Raymond Zhao and his guys unload enough gas to blow up the entire school group if they aren’t careful. The other families are setting up their camps, some struggling like they’ve never seen a tent before. Soon, the passengers on the 10:30 ferry will disembark, separating into day and overnight guests. Once the back of the UTV is empty, Raymond Zhao’s chefs start setting up tables like they are on Knives Up. Soon, Sam and one of the volunteers will deliver their welcome speeches, reminding the newcomers of the rules. Then the campers and day-trippers will disperse, claiming the island as their own. Raymond Zhao shakes my hand, thanking me for the ride, and I’m so lost in thought about all those people who are now on my island, people I haven’t vetted, that I don’t realize until he says “Give us an hour?” that I’ve been invited to lunch. I tell him that’s fine as I hop in the UTV and gun the engine, hoping to arrive back at the dock before the visitors scatter. Deep down, I know I’ve already missed them. They are already spreading out across the land. And they could be anyone.