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He had almost immediately decided that he did not care for the kayak over the tiny raft that he had used the first time he went ashore of Sicily. And he hadn’t been a big fan of that damn rubber doughnut, either.
He granted that the kayak was faster. But he was convinced that it could capsize at any second.
And being faster probably also means faster to sink when the damn thing dumps over.
Canidy also was more than a little apprehensive about transitioning from the rickety boat to shore. He mentally went over how he was going to accomplish it, then realized that that was pretty much an exercise in futility since he had never done it before.
And, therefore, I have no fucking idea of what I’m doing and what’s going to happen.
Except there’s every possibility that I’ll get soaking wet.
Which is okay as long as I don’t dump the W/T.
It did not necessarily help that both Nola and Fuller maneuvered like expert kayakers. They each worked their paddle, with the blades at opposite ends of the shaft, with the smooth, regular rotation of a windmill.
Small surprise. Nola’s whole life has been in boats.
Fuller probably learned at the beach or in Boy Scouts…or both.
Me, I was born to fly above all this damn nonsense.
Out of the corner of Canidy’s right eye, a motion in the darkness at about three o’clock caught his attention. Carefully, so as not to upset the boat, he turned to look.
It was the bow of Fuller’s boat. More precisely, it was the extra paddle Fuller had tied to the bow to project out in front of his boat.
And hanging from the tip of the blade was a veritable ship’s figurehead—the squirming soft pouch dangling by its pull-string closure.
Canidy couldn’t stop himself—he chuckled.
As Tubes paddled up alongside, he heard Canidy and smiled.
“Thought it’d be a good idea to use Adolf and Eva as our early-warning system,” Tubes said, grinning.
Canidy just shook his head.
Wordlessly, Tubes paddled ahead and took point.
The sounds of small waves lapping on the pebble beach became louder and louder.
Canidy heard the sudden scraping of Fuller’s boat running up on the shore, then some quick movement, then footsteps crunching on pebbles, then the sliding of the boat as it was pulled up onto dry land.
Well, good for you, Tubes. You made it.
Too bad you can’t show me how you did it.
Canidy looked over his left shoulder. He saw the vague outline of Nola in his kayak. He had already shipped his paddle, apparently in preparation for landing, and Canidy decided that he should follow suit.
Just as Canidy began to vaguely make out the outline of the shore, he heard footsteps crunching on the pebbles, then splashing in the water. They were coming toward him. He instinctively reached back to make sure he had quick access to the .45 in the small of his back. At the moment he touched the pistol, he saw the distinct shape of Tubes coming closer.
Tubes casually stepped sure-footedly through the shallow surf.
With such ease, he looks as if he just as well would be headed out to go swimming.
“I got it,” Tubes whispered as he grabbed the bow of Canidy’s boat.
He then towed the kayak to the shoreline, where he turned it parallel to the beach, and held it steady.
Canidy grabbed the gunnels of his boat, then awkwardly rose from his seated position and stepped ashore, his feet dry.
