Flotsam
Kate loved living in the old lighthouse keeper’s house. Even when the foghorn sounded all night, as it had last night, she still couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. This morning the sun shone brightly, and a fresh wind brought the smell of the water and the sound of waves pounding the rocks down the bluff.
She picked her way down the spray-slick rock path to see what new treasures had washed ashore. Some days all she would find would be snarls of fishing line or a single boot. On lucky days, she found sea glass or driftwood that looked like animals or birds. Today, the beach teemed with small crabs scuttling in and out of clumps of seaweed strung like bunting on the shore.
Kate walked along, intent on finding things she could use in her collages, when she almost stepped on a hand lying white and still, jutting out of a yellow storm coat sleeve. She held her breath as she bent down to check for a pulse. There was one, slow and steady, so she dared to look at the face of the man lying there, tangled in fishing line and seaweed like an unintended catch.
He was pale, his lips were blue from spending time in the chill water, and he had a gash on his head. It wasn’t bleeding. She figured any blood must have washed away.
He groaned and started moving his head from side to side.
“Hang on,” she said to the prone figure. “I’ll get help.” Since the man was lying above the waterline, she felt able to run back to the lighthouse and get on the radio. She called the Coast Guard and the sheriff, gave her location, and ran back to the beach. When she arrived, he was mumbling, rocking his head, and looked as if he was trying to sit up. “Hold still,” she said, reaching out to put her hands on his shoulders. “Let me get you untangled from the fishing line.” Kate pulled out the shears she’d tucked in her pocket for just that purpose and began to cut.
“Where am I?” he said in a low, clear voice.
“This is Cranberry Island in Lake Michigan.” Snipping through the monofilament line that wound around him, she knelt in the rocky sand, wetting her jeans from the knees down. “How did you get here? What happened?” she asked.
Freed from the fishing line, he struggled to sit up. “I was on Lenny’s boat fishing out on the bay when the wind came up. We started to pull in the lines when a wave hit the boat and rolled it onto its side. I got knocked off my feet, hit my head on the gunwale, and went into the water still holding the fishing rod.” He looked up at Kate. “Am I near Escanaba?”
The question set Kate back on her heels. “No, you must have floated all the way across the bay. You’re on a little island off Washington Island, Wisconsin. It’s about twenty-five miles to Escanaba.”
He looked down at the blaze-orange flotation vest he wore over his yellow storm coat. “Then this thing saved my life. I didn’t want to wear it, but Lenny insisted. If I’ve been unconscious and drifting for twenty-five miles, it’s a good thing he made me wear it.” He rubbed a hand over his head and winced when he felt the bruise. “I must have really hit hard. My head hurts.”
Kate looked at the welt on his head. “There’s a gash that must have bled some, but it’s not bleeding now.” She asked, “What’s your name? I’m Kate.”
“I’m Erik, with a K.”
“Hello, Erik with a K.” She heard a boat with a powerful engine approaching, recognized it as the sheriff’s boat, and stood to wave it in.
The boat stopped a few yards from shore, where the water got shallow quickly. Sheriff Arndt cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “How’s he doing?”
Kate hollered back. “Okay, but he hasn’t tried to stand up yet.”
“Where’s he from? Did he fall off a boat?”
“Yes, he fell off a fishing boat. He’s from Escanaba and drifted all night in that storm. He hit his head and got dumped in the lake.”
The sheriff paused and then called, “Is that Erik Masters?”
Kate looked down at the guy who was nodding his head. “Yeah, it’s him.”
“Oh, man, they’ve been searching for him all night. The radio’s been burning up with it.” He turned to speak to the other men in the boat. “Do you think he can walk over to your dock?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He hasn’t tried to stand up yet.” Kate leaned down to hook a hand in Erik’s armpit and helped him to get to his feet. He swayed for a few seconds and then shook off her steadying hand.
“I’m good. How far away is your dock?”
“It’s a mile if we stick to the shore, but only half a mile if we go overland. There’s a path, but it’s rough, not paved.”
Erik patted his life vest and tugged on his jacket sleeves. “Let’s take the path. I’m getting cold standing here all wet.”
Kate yelled to the sheriff to be heard over the idling boat motor. “We’ll hike over to the dock. Meet us there in about half an hour.”
Erik started out at a good pace but slowed down as they climbed a small rise in the center of the island. They had to skirt around a fallen tree and were careful to avoid stumbling over rocks that stuck up in the path.
“Do you fish a lot?” Kate asked.
Erik laughed. “No, that was my first fishing trip. I think I’ll take up something safer, like skydiving.” He walked in silence for a while. “How come you live on this deserted island?”
“I’m an artist and pretty much of a loner. Living in the old lighthouse keeper’s house, I have room for a studio and no one to bother me when I work.” She paused to wave at the sheriff waiting on the dock at the end of the path. “Friends and family come visit now and then, so I’m not lonely. I like the quiet and solitude. What do you do?”
“I sell cars. Used cars and new cars. I’m the guy no one thinks is honest. Do you have a car? Probably not, since you live on an island only accessible by boat.”
“I have a car,” Kate said. “It’s over on Washington Island. I can take my skiff over and get it when I need to drive somewhere for groceries or other supplies. I have a friend who lets me park it in his lot. He also collects packages for me. I go pick them up once a week.” She noticed Erik was shivering. “I’ll heat a mug of coffee for you when we get to the house. Sheriff Arndt can wait while you warm up.”
“What do you do in winter?”
“Winter is a whole other story. I spend most of it on Washington Island because the passage between Cranberry Island and Washington Island doesn’t freeze solid enough for a snowmobile, but it’s too icy for my skiff. So, I spend it with my friend. He’s usually in his wood shop so we can each work and not disturb the other.”
Erik looked back at her over his shoulder. “Friends with benefits?”
Kate stopped walking. “Really? I pick you up off the beach, call for rescue, and you ask that question?”
“I’m, uh, I’m sorry. It was a joke.”
“A not very funny joke. Let’s skip the coffee and go right to the dock. I’m sure you’ll be glad to get back to Escanaba and the used car lot.” She shouldered past him and picked up the pace as she strode down the hill to the dock and the sheriff. When she stepped onto the dock, she said, “Here’s Mr. Masters, all ready to go home. He’s still a little damp, but I’m sure he’ll dry out on the ride to shore.”
Sheriff Arndt blinked and looked at her. “Okay, Kate. Thanks for the radio call. I’ll take him off your hands now.”
“Thank you. Good luck with skydiving, Mr. Masters. I hope someone’s there to catch you if you fall.”
“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Kate. I didn’t mean to. Thanks for finding me and cutting the fishing line off me.”
“You’re welcome.”
****
Kate Masters turned to her daughter, Linea, nestled at her side. “And that’s how Mama and Daddy met.”
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A sweet read.