Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(31)

Waves broke hard over the bow, knocking out items she had tucked beneath the elastic deck line … a bottle of Gatorade, her signal kit.

Her heart was slamming with effort. If she’d had a free hand, she would have shaken a fist at the sky. Attacking the water with renewed fury, she muscled her way through roller-coaster swells. In a couple of minutes, better sense prevailed and she tried to spare her aching arms by keeping the paddle strokes low and using her trunk muscles. The only thoughts left were those connected to survival.

The entire world was water. Rain and ocean, above and below, spraying and roiling, pushing and tossing.

Billows shoved the kayak parallel and broadsided her. She leaned into each oncoming surge to keep from capsizing, and paddled to turn the bow of the kayak into the whitecaps. Another wave hit, but she couldn’t react fast enough.

The kayak flipped.

Eleven

Burning-cold blackness. Pain everywhere, all at once, as if she’d been set on fire. She tried to complete an Eskimo roll, but the kayak had capsized toward her weaker rolling side, and she couldn’t carry the movement through. Suspended upside down, disoriented by the cold shock, she grappled for the fastening loop of the waterproof spray skirt that held her into the cockpit of the kayak. The cold had already begun to mix her up; she couldn’t find the loop and panic was taking over.

She managed to fight her way sideways until her face broke the surface for the split second necessary to drag in a quick breath. Going back under, she searched for the loop and found it. A frantic tug, and the spray skirt came off. She fought her way out of the kayak. Coming to the surface, she grabbed the overturned craft and filled her lungs before another wave broke.

It was unbelievably cold. Her skin and flesh were numb, her blood pressure ratcheting furiously. The kayak paddle bobbed a few feet away, still tethered to the bow on a leash fastened with nylon snap hooks. Panting, she maneuvered to the bow, gripping the elastic deck to maintain her hold on the kayak. Gripping the leash, she tugged until the paddle was in reach. It was hard to make her hand close around the handle.

She had to get out of the water. Her fine motor skills were gone. In about ten minutes, blood flow to nonessential muscles would shut off.

Reaching under the kayak, she found the foam paddle float stored beneath the bungee cord on the deck, and pulled it free. She needed the paddle float to climb back into the kayak. Her hands were as clumsy as if they were encased in pot holders. She worked to slide one end of her paddle into the nylon pocket on the back of the float.

Before she had finished, a wave slammed into her. It was like running into a concrete wall, the impact nearly knocking her out. Wheezing, choking, she saw that the foam paddle float had been carried away. Her fist gripped the paddle handle, its leash still fastened to the kayak.

She made her way back to the kayak, grateful for the buoyancy of her life jacket.

With the paddle float gone, the only option was to flip the kayak right side up and try to climb onto the stern in a ladder-crawl maneuver. As she grappled for the deck line, however, she found she barely had any grip strength left.

It was happening too fast. The cold knifed deeper, her muscles stiffening as if she were turning to stone. She was scared, but that was a good sign; it was when you stopped feeling scared, when you stopped caring, that you were in the worst danger.

She tried to think of a spell, a prayer, anything that made sense, but words floated at the top of her head like the letters in a bowl of alphabet soup.

The yellow plastic surface of the kayak bumped against her head, galvanizing her.

The choice was simple: Get back in, and live. Stay in the water, and die.

Panting, grunting with effort, she flipped the kayak over and worked her way to the stern. The water shunted her in violent surges, up, down, sideways.

Every movement required intense will and focus. She knew what to do: Stow the paddle in the rigging. Push the stern down with your body weight. Kick your feet to launch yourself onto the stern decking. Crawl to the cockpit.

But Justine wasn’t sure if she was actually doing those things or merely thinking them. No, she was still in the water. The bow of the kayak had risen; she must have pushed the stern down. She couldn’t tell if her legs were moving, if she would be able to execute a strong enough kick to launch herself onto the craft. If she screwed up, there wouldn’t be another chance.

In a moment she found herself sprawled on the stern, her legs straddled on either side of the kayak. Thank you, spirits. Fighting to keep the craft balanced, she began to crawl toward the center.

But another wave was coming. A five-foot wall of water rolled directly toward the side of the kayak. Justine watched it approach with a strange sense of resignation, understanding that she was going to capsize again. It was over. She closed her eyes and held her breath as the world spun. The kayak and the paddle were ripped away from her, and she was submerged in a hell of churning coldness. The life jacket buoyed her to the milk-froth surface.

She could barely see or hear in the chaos, but a thunderous roar descended as if the entire sky were caving in. Shuddering, she turned to see a massive white shape upwind of her, rising and falling on the tumult. It took a long time for her disoriented brain to register that it was a boat. She was at the point of not caring about anything at all, not even whether she was rescued.

Someone was shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, but from the sound of his voice, he was probably cursing a blue streak. She felt another wave strike. Coughing up a mouthful of salt water, she tried to push a wet curtain of hair out of her eyes, but there was no feeling left in her hands. More shouting. A bright orange bag with a loop landed directly in front of her.