Surviving Bear Island Read Free Page A

the straight-line distance to shore, and I’d been swimming straight for shore as hard as I could.
    I just wanted my dad to appear on the shore. Maybe a little bruised up, but ready to take charge. To tell me what to do and where to go. And to tell me that everything would be all right. To forgive me for my screw-up. And, if he was hurt, I’d take care of him. Build him a big fire and do whatever it took to help him. My chest tightened and I sucked in a short breath, wanting more air.
    He had to be around here somewhere. He was stronger than me, so maybe he’d gotten to shore in more of a straight line while I’d been swept by the waves. He may have been a lost zombie at home after Mom died, but out here he was the expert. He knew his way around the forest andknew what to do in the cold. Forty below, fifty below, even sixty degrees below zero and he would still go out on his snowshoes.
    The coast angled northwest. A series of black cliffs and tan headlands two to three hundred feet high, dotted with off-shore rocks stretched to the horizon.
    We’d been planning to round the tip of the island, paddle down the other side partway, and then cross back to the mainland. But it was gonna be a long crossing, like seven miles. The crossing at the southern end of the island, where we’d come from, was only five miles.
    Only five miles of frigid water. Like we could swim either one. I’d barely made it to shore. Still couldn’t believe that I was actually standing here. But if I’d made it to shore, Dad must’ve too.
    â€œDad,” I called. “Dad. Da-ad. Hellooooooo.”
    Nothing.
    I scanned north for smoke from a campfire. For an orange dot on the shore.
    Nothing. My head fell forward. I sucked in another short breath.
    Directly below me, in the cove to the north, a large stream poured out of the forest and ran over seaweed-covered rocks.
    Stream.
    Stream meaning fish.
    Fish.
    Maybe a salmon stream. And just that thought, that tiny flash in my mind, brought my hunger back up. I wasn’t a salmon fan at home, but out here I’d eat salmon ’til I grew scales if I could get my hands on some.
    Sometimes the streams are choked with salmon. You can almost grab ’em like the bears do.
    Bears. Better be careful.
    I just wanted to eat.
    Eat.
    Eat.
    Eat.
    Not because something tasted good, but because I was starving. And, maybe Dad was up that creek. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t see him. Maybe he was catching a fish right now, or cooking one. I sniffed the air for the odor of cooking fish. I couldn’t be sure but I thought maybe I smelled something.
    Too bad I wasn’t fat. Then I’d have some reserves to burn. My eighth grade science teacher, Mr. Haskins, used to joke around about his reserves. He’d pat his belly and say he could outlast any of us in a hunger situation. We’d all laugh, but he’d just stand there, smiling.
    Dad had more reserves than me, but he wasn’t fat. We were the same height, about 5’ 10”, but he had more muscle. He was a carpenter and had all those years carrying plywood and beams and flooring. I wasn’t super skinny, but you could see my ribs when I didn’t have a shirt on. But I was building up some muscle from working with Dad.
    After Mom died he started taking me to work with him in the summers. Even then he barely spoke to me unless he had to give me a direction or show me how to do something, but at least I was with him. I started off doing simple stuff like stacking building materials, or coating boards with stain, but I helped with pretty much everything now.
    My dad had a degree in biology, but he liked keeping his own schedule, deciding when he would work and what kind of work he’d do.
Just keeping it simple,
he’d say. Too simple, if you ask me. We had a TV that you could only watch movies on.
    â€œCan’t we have cable, like Billy does? Like everyone does?” I’d