Page 40

Emmy, the park ranger

I head to the park housing, ready to clear my mind of John Smith. I’ll keep an eye on him, but there’s nothing I can do unless he acts first. Don’t go there, Emmy. Don’t start spiraling.

When I park my UTV and head toward my hut, Sam flags me down with the latest weather report from the mainland. While the sky is a piercing blue with pillowy white clouds and the wind barely stirs, the marine weather forecast is predicting a surge warning. If I’ve learned anything in my three years on the island, it’s that the weather report is always right.

“I’ll head down to the dock and see what their plan is,” I tell Sam, their meaning Island Packers. They are an independent company, with the power to decide their own boat schedule. They are also cautious. If the weather report warns of a storm, they’ve likely already amended their schedule.

“You sure?” Sam asks. “If you want to rest, I’ll take the lead.”

“I don’t think any of us is getting any more rest today.” I wave goodbye to Sam, tell him I’ll radio him, and head down to the dock to chat with Captain Norm. When I pull up in front of the Gordons’ house, both ferries are coasting in the bay.

On the beach, a few parents from the school group are skipping rocks with their sons. Others lounge on towels. Several are out on kayaks beyond my view of the coastline. On the right side of the dock, day visitors and campers from the previous night are lined up, waiting to board the 3:30 boat. Dozens of folks linger by the beach and the Visitor Center, no doubt waiting for the 4:30 p.m. boat.

“How’s it looking?” I ask Norm when I find him at the bottom of the ramp.

“Trips for tomorrow have already been canceled. Campers too.” While Island Packers is quick to cancel the day trips, they do their best not to disrupt campers’ plans. If they aren’t letting campers out, that means they aren’t sure they’ll be able to run the ferry the following day either. And canceled camping trips not only mean no one is making it onto the island. They also mean no one who is set to leave tomorrow, possibly even Sunday, can get off.

“I’ll make sure everyone knows. You got room for how many more?”

Norm skims the manifests for both boats, whisper counting as he reviews the names. “Maybe nineteen between both boats?”

I consult my list of the lower loop. There are seven campsites checking out tomorrow, twenty-two persons in total, more than we can accommodate on the boats. Newer campers and retirees tend to get nervous when they hear there’s no passage. They gripe about their trips being cut short, but they choose that over extending their stay. Today, not all of those who might want to leave early can. And this doesn’t even take into consideration the school families, who are apt to panic if they hear that there’s a possibility no boats will be leaving on Sunday either.

“I’ll touch base with everyone who’s supposed to leave tomorrow.” I check my watch. “Any chance you can hold the boat for ten while I round folks up?”

Norm sucks in his breath. “We’ll do what we can.”

I race up the ramp to the dock. I’ve got eighteen minutes before the first boat is supposed to leave, twenty-eight with the extra time Norm has granted me, which isn’t long enough to contact everyone on the island, all the folks on the cliffs, the families out for a paddle.

I rush toward my UTV, radioing the volunteers to see if they can help inform everyone about the disruption.

“I’m up near Montañon Ridge with the Williamses from site six. They’re going to stay,” Randy reports. “I’ll head down Smuggler’s, see if anyone’s out above the cove.”

“I’ll head up to Cavern Point, see who’s on the bluffs,” Sam chimes in on his radio.

“Hey, Emmy, I’m up at Potato Harbor, got Ryan Kim and Jody Wilson. They’re going to head out today. I’m driving them down to the lower loop now. I’ll keep my eye out for others,” Phil radios to me.

“Thanks, Phil. And Phil, Randy? I want you both on the three thirty boat too.” The volunteers don’t stay over, and I’m not making an exception tonight.

I mark up the list, hoping that Phil and Randy don’t count in the nineteen, now seventeen, ferry seats I have left for the campers. Then I hop into my UTV and head down the road. I decide to start with the upper loop, get the families out of the way first, even though I should prioritize the campers set to leave tomorrow. I imagine even the most nervous campers at the lower loop would be more understanding than any of the parents, if they miss their chance to leave now.

At the upper loop, a few people are loitering. Raymond Zhao and his two chefs are busy preparing food in the kitchen area. A father and son toss a Frisbee. Someone sleeps in a hammock. I park at the base and hop out, flagging down the first person I see, who is hanging lanterns in the trees.

It’s Cassie Bent.

Although I didn’t recognize her, couldn’t tell her company from Chanel or Prada—not that I know if those are even apt comparisons—the sight of her gives me butterflies. There’s something charged about her, something that holds me at attention.

“Ms. Bent?” Her eyes flit to me as she continues the task of knotting the lights to the trees. “I’ll be posting the official announcement in a little bit. I wanted to let you know that the boats aren’t running tomorrow.”

“We’re not leaving until Sunday,” she says, confused.

“If the swell’s bad, Island Packers may have to cancel Sunday’s schedule too. We won’t know until tomorrow. They try hard not to cancel two days in a row. I thought your group would want to know—there’s a chance you all might be here for an extra night.” I hold off on mentioning that there aren’t enough slots on today’s boat for everyone, that the last ferry will take off before many of them have returned from their kayaking trip.

“I see.” Cassie stops tying the lights and stares out at the hills. “But it’s so clear.”

“Storms can roll in quickly, with little warning.”

She considers this. “I don’t envy you right now.”