“Why didn’t you say somethin’ about it last spring?” Dad asked. I’d always known there was a good possibility we wouldn’t find it. But there was no sign of the kayak, nor any part of it. Although it was starting to sprinkle, the water was clear and shallow enough that we could see the sandy bottom. We both leaned over the edge, trying to get a better look. “That’s where I saw the kayak last April.” “Right there,” I said glumly, pointing and already disappointed. I stood at the side, staring into the water near the tip of the sandbar. Then he threw the boat in neutral and came back toward me. As soon as I saw the rotten pilings jutting out of the water, the events of last April tumbled forward in my mind and my stomach lurched.īacking off on the throttle, Dad carefully maneuvered the boat through the narrow channel along the sandbar. We entered the Corsica and then went directly to the opposite bank and the opening off the river where I had discovered Ben and where I’d spotted the sunken kayak last April. When Dad came forward and took over steering, I went back to sit on the engine box. It was long overdue, I thought, lifting my eyebrows, just as what I was doing was long overdue. Heavy, gray clouds obscured the sunrise, and a few raindrops already warned us it wasn’t going to be a beautiful day. The motor hummed as we moved out, the only boat on the creek. It didn’t matter what kids at school thought or what happened afterward. Finding the kayak and getting the truth out once and for all was my mission.
#The journey back by priscilla cummings full
I hadn’t slept much, but I was alert and pumped full of adrenaline. It had several pointy flukes on it, so if it caught hold, we could wrap the lines around the machine that acts like a high–powered winch to pull in crab pots and hoist it up that way.
Dad said that if the kayak was still there, we could snare it with the grapnel hook, which was actually an extra anchor he kept on board. I was glad, because it would have taken most of a day and a half to get the contraption hooked up. He didn’t think it was necessary to use the oyster dredger. Leaning into the front window, I looked hard to port to be sure I was clearing the last piling as we pulled out.ĭad went to work getting the grapnel hook ready. “Go ahead!” Dad hollered as he tossed the last line into the boat. Once the engine was running, I adjusted the radar controls on board the boat while my father reached over to the dock and cast off the lines. “I’ll be careful!” I called back over my shoulder as I went up front to turn the key in the ignition. Only my dad would say something like that. Remember, this ain’t no hot rod!” Dad warned, handing me the key. We stepped carefully so’s not to slip as we settled the gear on board. A great blue heron squawked at us for making too much noise and, indignant, took off from a nearby bank as we boarded my father’s boat.
#The journey back by priscilla cummings crack
Crack of dawn the next morning we made our way down to the creek, where a thick mist rose above the still, dark waters.
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