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Closing my eyes, I willed a safe landing for those on the cat. Hoped their captain had followed regs and provided life vests.
Beside me, Damico was alternating between crying and barfing, impressively, managing to do both simultaneously. She’d abandoned the first of the plastic Provigo sacks used to transport her boyfriend’s munchies and brews and was starting to fill the second. Now and then, when the deck reangled sharply, she’d wail and demand to be taken ashore.
Rabeau was rocking and rolling at his captain’s chair, feet spread, awaiting word from the stern. Each time Ryan called out, Rabeau tried the ignition. Over and over, the two repeated the sequence. Always with the same outcome.
Nothing.
Then the sound of Quebecois cursing.
Hostie!
Tabarnak!
Câlice!
Above the cacophony of wind and waves and male frustration, my ears picked up an almost inaudible sound. A high, mosquito-like whine. Distant sirens? A tornado warning?
I offered a silent plea to whatever water deities might be watching. Clíodhna, the Celtic goddess of the sea? Where the hell did that come from. Gran, of course. Christ, I was losing my mind.
The bow shot skyward, then dropped from the crest of a high wave into a trough.
Thwack!
A sound rose from Damico’s throat, a keening thick with silvery-green bile.
I reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. She lowered the Provigo sack and turned to face me, mouth an invertedU, a slimy trail of drool hanging from each corner. Lightning sparked, illuminating the skeletal arch of the Jacques Cartier Bridge behind and above her.
I felt tremors of my own. Swallowed. Vowed not to succumb to nausea.
Not to die. Not like this.
Death is inevitable for us all. From time to time, we ponder our passing. Visualize those last moments before the final curtain. Perhaps because I’m in the business of violent death, my imaginings tend toward the dramatic. A tumbling fall and fractured bones. Popping flames and acrid smoke. Crumpled steel and shattered glass. Bullets. Nooses. Toxic plants. Venomous bites. I’m not morbid by nature. The odds are far greater that the climactic setting will include pinging monitors and antiseptically clean sheets.
I’ll admit it. I’ve considered every possibility for my closing scene. All but one.
The one I fear most.
I’ve viewed scores of bodies pulled, dragged, or netted from watery graves. Recovered many myself. Each time, I empathize with theterror the victim had endured. The initial struggle to stay afloat, the desperation for air. The dreaded submersion and breath-holding. The inevitable yielding and aspiration of water. Then, mercifully, the loss of consciousness, cardiorespiratory arrest, and death.
Not an easy way to go.
Point of information: I have a robust fear of drowning. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of rivers, lakes, and pools. Far from it. I body surf and water-ski. I swim laps for exercise. I’m not afraid of going into the water.
I’m afraid of not coming out.
Irrational, I know. But there you have it.
So why was I there, in an open boat, about to die during the mother of all storms?
Fireworks.
And love.
Summer had taken its sweet time arriving in Quebec that year.
April teased with warm days that nibbled away at the black-crusted snow. Then April did what April does. The fickle mercury would plunge, encasing lawns, driveways, streets, and sidewalks in a mud-colored slick of frozen meltwater.
May offered ceaseless cold rain delivered in a variety of ways. Mist from velvety hazes. Drizzle from indolent gray skies. Splatter, big and fat from low-hanging clouds. Drops driven by winds disdainful of tempo carports, canopies, and umbrellas.
