ROUGH WATER
Folks who didn’t grow up on the water rarely feel at home there. Even if they’ve spent lazy summers in a pool or sprawled on a sandy beach, going out onto open water…that’s a different beast. If they’re smart, it makes them think. About riptides. Sharks. Drowning. Hypothermia. That niggling worry: If the ocean turns rough, will they have what it takes to make it back to shore?
I never wonder; I know. Once you’ve tasted the ocean’s anger and survived, it changes you.
For over fifty years, The Yard Arm has allowed regulars to post photos of loved ones lost to the Pacific, giving one wall to the tribute. Drowned tourists don’t get their photos pinned there. Only locals. Not that there are that many locals anymore, but the accumulated losses still manage to hide a large swath of plaster.
A boisterous group chattered their way into the bar, commandeering two tables, bringing with them a gust of salty air to mingle with the smells of beer and stale popcorn. Obviously tourists: their brightly patterned clothes gave them away. A smarter person would be grateful they came to our town to toss their money around.
I took another sip and stared at Macy’s photo, the whiskey burn keeping me grounded. Before grabbing the stool, I moved a newer photo down an inch so it no longer covered part of her face. Over the last ten years, the picture has faded, the red of her sweater now rust brown. But the light in her eyes still shone clear.
When Macy and I met in seventh grade, we were kindred spirits—with our patched jackets, home-trimmed hair, and too-short jeans. Recognizing another poor girl, I’d said hello. She’d just moved from Guerneville. It took a couple days before the whole story came out. Her pregnant mom had followed the latest in a string of losers here, hoping he’d greet the news of impending fatherhood with joy. Instead, he took off for parts unknown.
Having grown up near the Russian River, Macy wasn’t afraid of cold or rough water. She’d rafted and ’tubed but never kayaked. I taught her how to paddle and steer my uncle’s long-abandoned Zephyr. No one paddled my dad’s old Eddyline Falcon but me. Together, Macy and I paddled south to Sotsin Point, Moonstone Beach and Little River, and north to Pewetole Island, Flatiron Rock, and Elk Head. By the time we were in high school, Macy was as deft a paddler as me.
The hours we spent on the water were magical. High water, low water, early morning, late afternoon—it didn’t matter. We paddled it all. We’d watch for otters and sea lions, await the murre colony that appeared on Flatiron Rock each spring, and be awed by the whales that migrated by throughout the year. We felt more at home on the water than on land.
Five years. Five amazing years. For those five years I had a best friend who understood what I was thinking without me saying a word. A friend to hang out with at school, after school, weekends, and summers. We both got part-time housekeeping jobs at a local hotel so we could spend time together while earning the money our moms desperately needed.
If we hadn’t been so damned poor, so hungry for more, Macy might still be alive.
I signaled for another whiskey. The grizzled bartender lumbered over and refilled my glass.
“Brandy,” a favorite song of my mom’s, began playing on the jukebox. I turned to glare at the tourist who’d paid for the cheesy tune. My heart stuttered. Not a tourist.
Lowell Lightfoot met my gaze. He waited until I nodded before approaching. He pulled out the neighboring stool. “It’s been a while.”
“Yep.” I never understood folks who stated the obvious.
Though eternally handsome, Lowell knew his charms wouldn’t work on me. “How you doing?”
I shrugged. “Getting by.”
“That’s something.”
“Is it?” Bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it back and looked away.
Me, Macy, and Lowell. We’d once been a trio. Lowell was just as dirt poor, but with his looks, he had the potential to rule high school. He could’ve easily charmed his way in with any clique. I was surprised he chose to hang with us. But the reason soon became clear.
It’s not like the other students were rich. The rich kids all went to private schools. We were just poorer than most. By high school, Macy and I no longer wore secondhand clothes, but the aura of poverty somehow still clung to us. The other kids only stopped calling us Trip-Bs —Bargain Basement Babes—after Macy and Lowell became a couple.
Seeing Lowell brought the last day we’d all been together crashing back. Determined to make the most of our Thanksgiving break senior year, the three of us dropped into the water at Trinidad Beach, heading north. Our goal that day: White Rock. Though it was forty-eight degrees, the day had remained dry. We’d already reached Lepoil Rock when a bank of clouds began shifting our way, dark and ominous.
“What do you think?” Macy said.
“We’re gonna get wet. At least on the way back.” The fishing season was largely over. The few fishing charters still running had left port at daybreak and the crabbing season wouldn’t start until December first. This bit of water was all ours. Usually that was a plus, but if the weather turned, having boats nearby could come in handy.
“Rain’s forecast for the next several weeks,” Lowell said. “This could be our last paddle until the new year.”
Eyeing the darkening sky I said, “Vote it?”
He nodded. “I say we continue. Macy?”
“Agreed. Two against one—or are you going to cave to peer pressure?” She grinned at me.
“Since I’ve already lost, might as well say yes. We might make it to Green Rock before the rain. But probably not White Rock.”
“You think?” Lowell squinted into the wind.
“If it blows any harder, the return trip’s gonna be tough. The clouds are coming in fast.”
“If it really starts to come down, we can paddle closer to shore,” Macy said.
She knew as well as I did that was a dangerous option.
We all wore wetsuits and windproof jackets under our vests, plus gloves and beanies. We were lucky to be so well-prepared. Lowell had gotten us the cold-water gear. We never asked how he came by the equipment. I’d considered requesting spray skirts as well, but it turned out we were warm enough encased in neoprene.
We resumed paddling, constantly adjusting for the wind. When we rounded Elk Head, the dark spruce and redwoods lining the high ground above the shore shivered in the wind.
We were about five hundred feet from Green Rock when Macy said, “Look at that.”
I stared. A panga boat was caught on a sandbar on the oceanside of one of the turtle-like rocks jutting from the water. We paddled closer. Stacked plastic-wrapped bundles filled the midsize craft but it looked abandoned.
“That’s a drug boat.” Macy’s voice sounded tight.
“Hello?” I called out.
“What’re you doing?” she hissed.
“There could be people in the water.”
“I’m thinking whoever abandoned ship didn’t do it around here,” Lowell said.
The wind kicked up a notch making my eyes tear. “Why?”
“We’re not really on the drug trade water route. The farthest north these things usually go is Santa Cruz.”
I didn’t ask how he knew.
“Maybe it was heading to Canada,” Macy said.
“Maybe.” He paddled closer.
I eyed the nearest section of shore. “Think it got caught in that storm last week and—”
“Decided to visit our Podunk town?” Lowell flashed his grin.
I gave a weak smile. “Yeah. If the crew went overboard in the storm…”
“Then we are way too late to save them,” Lowell said.
Again, I scanned the beach and open water.
“I count at least thirty bales.” Lowell turned to look at Macy. “Be a shame to let the cargo go to waste.”
“We’d be able to buy dry suits,” Macy said.
I pictured new boots, jeans, and a heavy jacket. We’d have heat all winter long. And hot water. No “the rent’s late” calls from the landlord. Still, this much weed wasn’t going to be forgotten. “I don’t know. Just because no one’s here doesn’t mean no one owns it.”
Macy ignored my comment. “How would we distribute it?”
The choppy water edged us closer to the panga. I backpaddled while Lowell and Macy let the current carry them forward.
“We could sell to everyone we know and still have a whole lot leftover.” Macy pulled her gaze from the cargo. “How long would it take to go stale?”
“Does it go stale?” I said, “I’ve never held on to any long enough to know.”
“Wrapped in that watertight packaging it should last six months to a year.”
Figured Lowell would know.
“Low,” Macy said, “I think you got the number of bales wrong.”
I counted the visible bundles. “She’s right. There’s twenty on the port side, then what—three across? So, maybe more like sixty?”
“Maybe.” Lowell cocked his head, studying the high-bowed boat. “Either way, Macy’s got a point. We could never sell it all ourselves. But I know a guy who can handle this. We can sell the cargo to him.”
Uneasiness gripped me. “I take it this friend of yours is a drug dealer?”
“Duncan’s a good guy. He’ll treat us right.”
“How much can we get?” Macy’s face lit with hope.
“Don’t know. But I read something about a five-hundred-pound haul by the Coast Guard being worth one-and-a-half million.”
“Whoa.” Macy hoisted her paddle from the water and stared.
“This guy Duncan—he’d get the lion’s share of the money.”
“Why?” Outrage tinged Macy’s voice.
“He takes the risks, makes the sales. But asking for fifteen grand each seems fair to me.”
“That’s all?” Macy slapped her paddle down on the Zephyr’s deck. “We found it. We should at least get half.”
“In a perfect world, sure. But Duncan’s got a team ready to sell. Throughout NorCal. Maybe even the whole state.”
Waves of resentment radiated from Macy.
I got it. Not only was her family poor, hers also had a lot more mouths to feed than Lowell’s or mine. “It’s still a lot of money, Mace. Besides, if we do take the weed, I don’t want it in our possession for long. If we try selling it ourselves, we’ll be hustling dime bags for…God knows how long.”
“I guess,” she said.
This was starting to feel real. I stared at the bundles, queasiness rocking my gut along with the growing chop. “Won’t someone come looking for it?”
“Probably,” Lowell said. “But why would they look here?”
“Let’s do it,” Macy said.
I still thought it was dangerous. “Before we do anything else, we need to look for whoever was on the boat.”
“Get real.” Lowell frowned. “Water temp’s around fifty degrees. You land in that; you swim to shore. Plus, this boat’s been adrift for a while. Maybe days. Nobody’s dogpaddling around waiting to be rescued by kayak.”
“We should move the boat,” Macy said. “We don’t want someone else spotting it.”
“Good point.” Lowell rested his paddle across his kayak’s deck. “I’ll board and see if there’s any fuel left.”
“Where exactly to you plan to move it to?” I said, “We can’t paddle back to the beach with a boatload of weed.”
“We’ll haul it behind that.” He pointed at Green Rock. “But first things first, I’ll check the engine. Let’s pull alongside and raft up.”
We all paddled to the panga, then Macy and I steadied Lowell’s kayak as he levered himself out onto the larger craft. Once he got his footing, he surveyed the cargo. “Damn, this is a lot of weed.” He skirted the bales and moved to the outboard motor. After a brief silence he said, “Tank’s dry. I’ll call Duncan. He’s got a speedboat and can get here pronto.”
“Wait,” I said.
“For what?” His response came sharp as a knife.
“We don’t know this guy.”
“I do,” Lowell said. “We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but he’ll want in on something like this.”
“That’s not making me feel better about him. How do you know we can trust him?”
“Brandy.” Macy sounded almost as impatient as Lowell. “We can’t mess around. Someone could motor by at any moment.”
“In this weather?” Again, I eyed the sky.
Lowell grabbed the lanyard around his neck and pulled a waterproof pouch from beneath his vest. “Macy, do you want me to call him?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re outvoted, Brandy.” After extracting his phone, Lowell peeled off one of his gloves and tapped the screen.
“I don’t like this,” I said to Macy.
Her eyes narrowed. “We’re doing it. If you’re so freaked, you can paddle home.”
Sick as this plan made me feel, I said, “I’ll stay.”
“Yo, Duncan, it’s me.” A pause then, “Lowell.” Another pause followed by “Look, I got something for you.” He frowned as he listened.
The wind speed increased, the slap of water against our hulls growing louder. I wished Lowell had put the call on speaker.
“Dude, I know the last thing we did together went south. I say we move on. This is definitely worth your time.” He described the boat’s contents, then gave our location. “I think we’re going to tow it off the sandbar to the ocean side of Green Rock. We don’t want anybody spotting it from shore.” Lowell frowned. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I’m telling you— Right. I get it. Be sure to bring gas. Okay. See you then.” He tucked the pouch back inside his vest. “Brandy, gimme your tie down.”
I pulled the coiled rope from beneath my seat and tossed it to him.
Lowell knotted one end to the panga’s cleat and threw the free end back. Using his paddle, he tried pushing off from the sand bar. After several grunts, the panga finally shifted free. Lowell climbed back into his kayak, then had me tie the rope’s free end to his carry handle. By the time he’d towed the boat past Green Rock, the wind steadily buffeted us.
“How long will your guy take?” A sharp gust peppered my face with needlelike spray.
“Duncan said an hour. So, by now only forty-five minutes or so.”
“I hope the weather holds.” As if nature was laughing at my wish, it began to drizzle.
The water grew choppier as we waited. I tried not to think about how one hundred years ago, the largest recorded wave to hit the west coast had struck Trinidad Head. To keep warm, I circled the panga.
On my tenth circuit, Macy said, “How much longer now?” Her teeth chattered around her words.
Lowell had to shake out his hands before retrieving his phone. “Another twenty or twenty-five minutes.”
Green Rock rose over ninety feet from the water, providing shelter from the wind. We stayed close. Things would get more challenging once we started paddling back to Trinidad Head. The drizzle had already turned to rain and the rocky coast now formed a hulking shadow.
“Maybe we should just leave the boat,” I said. “Your friend, Duncan, knows where to find it. It’s getting messy out here and we’ve still got a tough paddle home.”
“I’m getting cold, too,” Macy said. “But let’s give him fifteen more minutes. We don’t want the wrong person grabbing our weed.”
Our weed? It looked like she was already counting the money in her mind. “Okay.”
Finally, an engine roared above the wind. I wished we’d left at least ten minutes earlier. But as long as we were on our way before the rain turned into a downpour, we’d be okay. A black form separated itself from the gloom, racing toward us. I didn’t recognize the make, but the boat looked expensive. And fast.
Ten feet away, it made a sudden turn, the wake lifting our kayaks. A real jackass move. If this was Duncan, I wasn’t impressed.
The pilot was tanned and scruffy, somewhere in his forties. He maneuvered next to the panga and cut the engine. Hatless, he wore waterproof trousers and jacket, and gloves.
“Hey, Dunc,” Lowell said.
Duncan nodded. A younger man stood behind him. Not dressed for the weather, his beanie and jacket soaked up the rain. He blew on his fingers before hefting a jerry can. Duncan waited while his helper boarded the panga and sliced through the plastic wrapping around one of the bales. He gave his boss a thumbs up then went to fill the engine. Once that task was complete, the panga’s engine roared to life.
“Take off,” Duncan said. “I’ll meet you at the spot”
The panga roared away.
“Wait,” Macy said.
“For what?” Duncan frowned down at her.
“We haven’t talked terms yet.”
“Terms?” He turned to Lowell. “This girl for real?”
“She just wants to know how much we’re going to get. For telling you about the boat.”
“Not just telling him,” Macy said. “For finding the boat. That cargo’s worth a lot.”
“Do I know you?” Duncan said.
“No.” Macy bit her lip, obviously uncomfortable under Duncan’s stare.
“But you think you know more about this business than me?”
“Uh, no.”
Lowell paddled closer, maneuvering his kayak between Macy and the speedboat. “Hey, it’s all good, Dunc.”
The rain began coming down in earnest. Duncan wiped water from his face as he kept his eyes on Macy. “You calling me a cheat? A thief?”
“No, I—”
“You wouldn’t be wrong. But I like to think of it as good business.” Duncan pulled a gun from his jacket pocket. “And a good businessman never parts with money unless absolutely necessary.”
Sounding panicky, Lowell said, “We just want to know how much you’re going to pay us. That’s all.”
“You didn’t really think I’d risk a loser like you knowing about this find?”
“C’mon, Duncan.”
“I told you the last time, I’d kill you if I ever saw you again.”
“Dunc, this is crazy.”
“Ladies first.” He pointed the gun at Macy and fired. Blood spread across her vest. Eyes wide, she clutched her chest, then collapsed forward, her paddle tumbling into the water.
“No!” Lowell yelled.
Duncan pointed the gun at Lowell. I didn’t wait to see what happened. Gulping air, I kissed the deck and rolled. While the kayak was upside down, I did a wet exit and breast stroked away from the speedboat. My vest tugged me toward the surface. I kept kicking as I unhooked the clasps and peeled it off. Lungs burning, I swam farther into the darkness, only coming up when my body’s need for air outweighed my terror. Rain pelted my head and the surrounding chop. I tried to breathe without sucking in water. I couldn’t see Duncan or his speedboat. But the motor sounded like he was racing away. Treading water, I scanned my surroundings. Through the rain I spied Lowell’s bobbing kayak. Empty.
Oh God.
Macy’s kayak had drifted away from Green Rock. She remained motionless across the Zephyr’s deck. I put my head down and started swimming. The wind whipped the water. Whitecaps frosted its surface. When I finally reached her, my whole body trembled with fear. Slumped forward the way she was, I couldn’t see her face.
“Macy?” I touched her back. Cold. But was the chill coming from my hand, her wetsuit, or her body? “Macy.” I grabbed her arm and shook it. No response.
The clouds kept dumping water. I scanned the area again for Lowell. Visibility was down to four or five feet. He could be anywhere. A wave slapped my face. I grabbed the Zephyr’s carry handle and started side stroking toward shore. Lowell had probably been right about the water temp. At fifty degrees, a person could survive in it for five or six hours. If the waves and riptide didn’t pull them down. I had time. And my wetsuit. I’d make it to shore.
My progress toward land slowed as I struggled to breathe air instead of rain. My adrenaline rush was long gone, and my legs grew heavy as cement. I kicked and pulled my tired arm through the water. Stopping wasn’t an option. Macy was counting on me.
When I feared I couldn’t swim any farther my hand smashed against solid ground. Biting back a groan, I lifted my head. Land. My knees connected with the rocks beneath the water. I crawled ashore, feet and hands numb, despite my neoprene layer. I stood and gritted my teeth as I towed the Zephyr, scraping its hull across the rocks until it lodged in the wet sand. I stumbled to Macy’s side and tried to shift her upright. My chilled fingers failed me. Moving behind her, I straddled the kayak and wrapped my arms around her chest. Using every ounce of energy I still possessed, I pulled Macy free from the kayak, rolling her face-up on the ground. I placed my ear beside her mouth. No warm breath touched me. I struggled to peel off my glove, then felt for a pulse. Nothing.
“Macy?” Rain pounded down. Even though I was sure she was dead, I pushed her onto her side to keep the falling drops from filling her mouth.
A dark shadow lurched from the water. Fear jerked my heart before I recognized Lowell. He staggered two steps, then collapsed. I crawled to his side. Blood ran from a hole in the left arm of his wetsuit. But he was alive.
“Macy?” he croaked.
I shook my head. “Your phone still work?”
“Don’t know.” A shiver wracked his body.
The lanyard for his waterproof pouch still hung around his neck. My fingers continued to balk at my commands. By the time I gripped his phone, I was shaking as bad as Lowell. But, unlike Macy, his phone had survived.
After Macy’s death, I no longer hung out with Lowell. Just looking at him turned my stomach. If he hadn’t suggested we call Duncan to come retrieve the contents of the panga, Macy would still be alive. Duncan wasn’t even punished for what he’d done. He fled the state and disappeared. I also avoided Lowell because I feared the judgment I’d see in his eyes. He was the one who tried to get between Duncan and Macy while I’d focused on saving my own skin—until it was too late to save her.
Back then, all I’d wanted to do was lay in bed and cry, but Mom insisted I finish the school year. I gutted my way through the next six months while doing everything I could to avoid Lowell. I refused to see him when he showed up at our door. Declined his many calls. Took the long way to class so I wouldn’t pass his locker. Left campus during lunch breaks. Until graduation, I kept my head down and my grades high.
I’d kept to the straight and narrow. Got a degree in computer science. Was able to get a good paying job and move my mom into a nicer place. Though I was only a small cog in a huge corporate wheel, the easy access to data gave me the feeling of control I’d craved ever since Macy’s murder. I still paddled out regularly, but never in iffy weather. And never north to Green Rock where Macy was killed.
My not talking to Lowell didn’t keep me from hearing the tales. He’d begun starting fights in high school. Got suspended a couple times. After graduation he moved from petty theft to grand larceny. A couple years later, he got caught and went to prison.
He’d been released ten days ago.
“Thanks for writing,” he said.
“What’d you expect?”
“Not that.” He swiveled on his barstool to face me. “I am sorry, you know.”
“Me too. I should’ve lobbied harder. Convinced Macy to leave with me.”
“We both messed up.”
“Me more than you.” I stared down at my drink.
Lowell cleared his throat then said, “Duncan’s dead.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. The ever-present tightness in my jaw loosened. “How?”
“Someone slit his throat.”
“Who?”
Lowell shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Depends.” I risked nausea and looked him in the eye.
“On what?”
“On who did it.”
“Why? The guy’s still dead.” Lowell turned his gaze to the photo wall.
Was he looking for Macy the same way I had? “Because I’d like to buy his killer a drink.”
Lowell signaled the grizzled bartender.
“What’ll you have?”
“Give me what she’s drinking.” He pointed his thumb at my glass. “And put it on her tab.”
The bartender poured and Lowell lifted his glass towards me. A layer of regret fell away, and we clinked. For the first time in years, I was able to look him in the eye.
“Thanks for finding his address in Canada and getting it to me before my release.”
“My genuine pleasure.”
After losing their home during a California wildfire, Peggy Rothschild and her husband moved to the central coast. Peggy is the author of three Molly Madison Dog Wrangler mysteries--A DEADLY BONE TO PICK, PLAYING DEAD, and LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE--as well as the coming-of-age mystery, PUNISHMENT SUMMER. Her short stories have been included in various anthologies.
Peggy is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America.
