Sea Change Read Free Page B

Four
    We’re in the tackle room, apparently, and I’ve made a bit of a mess. Sumi shovels the worst of it off to the side of the room. Still swearing, she picks out a couple of rods that escaped damage and sets these by the door. From a rack she tosses me a set of overalls and a bright yellow floater jacket. Then she points to a line of rubber boots. “Think you can find some boots without totally trashing them too?” She grabs a pair of heavy wool socks from a bin and jams them in her pocket.
    I guess we’re going fishing. I think maybe I should clean up the rods, but she’s leaving so I scramble to my feet, grab a pair of size-ten boots and follow her.
    The fishing boat we’re going to use is moored about a hundred yards from shore. The dinghy Dad used is bobbing on a mooring buoy where he left it, which is absolutely no good to us. We have to carry down a fiberglass rowboat from the boat shed. Sumi takes one side, I take the other. It’s not a big boat, but it weighs a ton and I’m starting to sweat. “This thing have a motor?”
    Sumi tips her head at the oars in the bottom of the boat. “It’s got you.”
    This should be good—I’ve never rowed a boat.
    We have to go back up to Sumi’s cabin for our stuff, which doesn’t seem like much, just some bottles of water, a few granola bars and a plastic box of fishing gear, which Sumi insists on carrying. The bread and peanut butter is starting to look good, but Sumi doesn’t stop to eat, so neither do I. We load rods and gear into the rowboat. I take the middle bench, and Sumi pushes us off. She plunks down at the back of the boat and starts fiddling with the rods. I jam the oars into the locks and start rowing.
    When I tell people what my old man does, that he’s in charge of a fishing lodge, they figure I fish all the time. They ask me what the biggest fish I’ve caught is. They ask me what kind of rod I use, what kind of line, like I would know.
    Sumi glances up from her work. “Where the hell are you going?”
    I look over my shoulder and see that the fishing boat is way off to the left. I say, “What genius made it so you have to row backward?”
    Sumi rolls her eyes.
    I get the boat pointing where it needs to go, then pick a big rock on the shore and visually line it up. It should work. Keep the rock in line, keep the boat going where it’s supposed to.
    Sumi doesn’t even look up. “You’re pulling left.”
    I concentrate on pulling evenly.
    â€œNow right.”
    â€œIt’s the waves. They’re throwing me off.”
    â€œThese little things? These aren’t waves.”
    The wind is cold, but the waterproof floater coat feels too warm.
    We arrive at the fishing boat with a clunk, which makes Sumi mutter. She steps into the fishing boat, takes the rope from the front of the dinghy and ties it to the mooring buoy. Meanwhile, I’m still in the dinghy. It takes me a while to get back alongside the fishing boat, and with absolutely no grace I tumble into the bottom of the boat. Sumi sighs but doesn’t say anything. She starts the big outboard and hollers at me to untie us. Then, before I can sit down, she guns the engine so I fall again, this time cracking my knees against the side of the boat.
    â€œHey,” I shout. “I almost fell in!”
    Sumi seems to smile. “One hand for the boat,” she shouts back.
    We motor out of the bay at what feels like full speed. Sumi stands and steers the outboard. She has pulled her hood up against the spray. I turn on my seat so the spray hits me in the back of my hood.
    She’s right. These aren’t waves. They are watery brick walls. The boat slams into them and makes my teeth clack. Then the boat thuds into the trough, and each section of my spine jams together.
    â€œHow far are we going? Alaska?”
    She doesn’t answer but careens around a point of rock jutting into the