Red Kayak: Chapters 1–5

Don’t think it didn’t bother me, the way those traps sat all summer, stacked four deep against the back of Dad’s toolshed. Some never even got hosed off, they were stashed in such a hurry. Be a lot of work to clean ’em up and rezinc them, too, so they don’t corrode.

In just a few days, though, I could have four rows of twenty-five sunken pots out there, each one marked with a fresh-painted orange buoy, and all one hundred of those pots soaked and baited with razor clams.

My cousin Carl comes over a lot. He’s a paramedic and sees a lot of gross stuff, so he knows about getting things out of your head.

Despite everything, I still marvel at how all those tiny ripples in the water can catch the sunlight and make the river shimmer like a million jewels were strewn on the surface.

Deceptive, how other times the same water can seem as smooth as glass.

“You’re just jealous,” J.T. quipped.

“Dr. Finney’s sailboat,” I said, glad to move off the subject of J.T.’s green tea. “Thirty-foot Seawind ketch. Twenty-five years old—fiberglass hull but a lot of solid wood trim topside.”

“Dr. Finney’s sailboat,” I said, glad to move off the subject of J.T.’s green tea. “Thirty-foot Seawind ketch. Twenty-five years old—fiberglass hull but a lot of solid wood trim topside.”

“Yeah, me neither,” J.T. said. “I erased my entire hard drive last night. I need to load everything back on and rewrite that essay for English. Hey, Brady, remember those oxymorons we talked about in lit the other day?”

“Really, guys. We ought to yell something,” I said soberly.

I knew he was sore because the DiAngelos bought his grandfather’s farm, tore down the old house, and built a mansion up there on the bluff.

What I don’t understand is how Digger could have been so callous that morning: If he’s stupid enough to be out there, he can take what’s coming...

Then, stealthily, J.T. reached into a compartment behind him, put on a stethoscope, and secretly tried to listen to the back of Digger’s head.

J.T. and Digger were punching each other in the arms and made a beeline for the store, but I walked up to the front to thank Carl for the ride.

In fact, a lot of times, depending on his shift, he’d come out with me after school to haul in my catch and toss the keepers into the baskets on my skiff.

“Guess I got lazy this winter,” I said, resettling the hat back on my head. It wasn’t a very witty response, but I didn’t feel much like joking around.

I pointed and grimaced, a clear reference to the cast on her leg, which was there for the ankle she broke during lacrosse practice.

He’s a cute kid. “A towhead,” Mom called him because his hair is so blond it’s almost white.

We put together some LEGOs the afternoon I took care of him, and we constructed some fairly sophisticated stuff. A tall castle with a drawbridge that moved up and down, and a pulley with a string that hoisted soldiers up over the wall.

We put together some LEGOs the afternoon I took care of him, and we constructed some fairly sophisticated stuff. A tall castle with a drawbridge that moved up and down, and a pulley with a string that hoisted soldiers up over the wall.

If anyone was found, Dad told me, we should go to the marina at Rock Hall, where an ambulance was waiting.

Midmorning by then, but it was dark because of the encroaching storm.

Switching gears to forward, I headed out, full throttle, just as fast as my skiff could go.

I waved back, then Dad headed to starboard, while I veered opposite, toward the left bank of the creek.

I waved back, then Dad headed to starboard, while I veered opposite, toward the left bank of the creek.

They were nice to me there. I liked the whole platoon.

I kept going, but toward the head of the creek, a marsh taken over by a patch of tall phragmites warned of shallow water, and I turned the boat around, not wanting to run aground.

But Tilly was barking up a storm and stood with her nose pointed toward the riverbank, where some of the water curled into a small cove.

Once, she barked at the ceiling in our basement so insistently that my father pulled down part of the insulation and found a possum’s nest made out of leaves.

But as I drew closer I could see that he was motionless, his small body hunched forward, the back of his lifejacket caught on a jagged piece of old piling that jutted out of the water like a rotten tooth.

But as I drew closer I could see that he was motionless, his small body hunched forward, the back of his lifejacket caught on a jagged piece of old piling that jutted out of the water like a rotten tooth.

Quickly, I felt with two fingers against his throat for that artery, the big one up there under your jaw.

Five compressions. Then I bent over for another breath. Then five compressions. Then another breath. Then five compressions.

I felt both drained and elated.

Because that day on the Corsica River, the day I lifted Ben off the piling, I had straddled the invisible line between life and death that runs down all our lives every second—with every breath we take.