Seizure(84)

Ben was already aboard Sewee, double-checking the gear we’d assembled that afternoon. Shelton and Hi arrived moments later. We eased from the pier and motored north toward Bull Island.

A full moon hung low on the western horizon. Bright. Timely. It glowed like a giant white eye, alleviating the need for battery-powered light.

We rode in silence, each wrapped in our own thoughts. The only words spoken were occasional navigational commands.

Ben crossed the harbor mouth, rounded Sullivan’s Island, and headed back into The Cove. We’d decided to take the Intracoastal Waterway—a combo natural and man-made canal running between the barrier islands and the mainland. Traveling the open sea after sunset was too risky.

Before long we reached the Claybourne cabin we’d fled the previous night. The property was dark and quiet. Continuing north, Sewee passed island after island on our right. Sullivan’s. Isle of Palms. Dewees.

Then the waterway narrowed. Signs of human influence fell away as we crossed into thick, undisturbed swampland. The only sounds were the hoots and peeps of nocturnal birds and an occasional muffled splash.

We huddled close together aboard our little craft, keenly aware that humans were interlopers in such wild, primal Lowcountry.

After what seemed a lifetime, Ben pointed to a black shape on our right.

“That’s the southern edge of Bull Island,” he said. “Most of the high ground is on the northern side.”

“Should we anchor here?” I asked.

“We need to go farther up the waterway,” Ben said. “The next stretch is pretty raw, but leads into Sewee Bay. From there we can cut through the swamp and come ashore on one of the beaches.”

“Let’s hustle.” Hi gestured at the gloom around us. “This place feels like Jurassic Park on crack. I don’t wanna get chomped by a velociraptor.”

We entered a narrow channel overhung with trees that blocked the moonlight and wrapped our vessel in shadow. As our progress slowed, my anxiety increased.

Finally, the canal opened into a wide tidal lake. Scattered docks appeared. Ben skirted the shoreline, then turned into a network of narrow creeks. Shelton sat next to him, relaying GPS directions stored on his iPhone.

After a zigzag course we pulled into Bull Harbor. I could hear the Atlantic surf not far off.

“There she blows.” Ben pointed to the landmass looming ahead. “Oneiscau. Bull Island.” To Hi, “You have that map handy?”

“Yep.” Hi tapped his smartphone.

“Which way?” Ben asked. “The island has only one dock.”

“We should anchor near the watchtower,” Shelton blurted. “Keep the boat close.”

“Why?” Hi asked.

Shelton’s teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Call it a hunch.”

“Care to share more?” I said. “We’re on a tight timetable.”

“Not just yet. But I’ve got an idea. Humor me.”

“Humoring you means getting in the water,” Hi grumbled. “It better be worth it.”

Shelton slapped Hi’s shoulder. “Seeing you in a wet tee is reward enough.”

“Which way to the fort?” Ben asked.

“Hard to starboard.” Hi’s features glowed blue in the light of his phone’s display. “The watchtower is near Bull’s northeastern point.”

Ben skimmed past dense forest growing tight to the water’s edge. Live oaks and palmetto palms jockeyed with cedars, loblolly pines, and sprawling magnolias. The tangled understory blocked all view of the island’s interior. Like Loggerhead, I thought.

As Sewee crept forward the woodland gave way to marsh. The water grew shallow. Reeds and spartina grass poked from its surface. Frogs croaked. Insects hummed and whined all around us.

“Bull Island has an enormous alligator population,” Ben whispered. “So … uh … keep your head on a swivel.”

“Swamps suck donkey balls,” Shelton muttered. “Seriously.”

“There.” Hi pointed inland, where, roughly a quarter mile distant, a steep hill rose in the moonlight. A jagged silhouette crowned the hilltop.

“It’s too boggy to go ashore here,” Ben said.

“Continue north a bit.” Hi was peering at his iPhone. “There’s a beach.”

Shelton nodded with feeling. “I’m not swimming here. This place looks like a gator’s kitchen.”

Five minutes motoring brought us to a white beach running the island’s northern rim. Twenty yards inland, a row of head-high dunes marched to a grassy plain. The moonlit hill was a vague cutout in the darkness beyond.

Ben coaxed Sewee as close to shore as possible.

“There’s a trail from the beach.” Hi pocketed his phone. “The tower’s about a half mile away.”

Chance was watching the beach. “What lives out here?”

“Animals,” Ben said.

“Care to be more specific?”

“The Refuge website listed deer, raccoons, gators, and some smaller guys like fox squirrels and lizards.” Shelton was untying his tennis shoes. “But Bull is really about the birds. Over two hundred species.”

“Ducks, mallards, pintails.” Ben cut the engine and tossed the anchor overboard. “Sandpipers, yellowlegs, warblers, sparrows, woodpeckers. Not that you’d know the difference.”