February

Issue 41

     I pull, stroke, pull, chanting a list of uninhabited islands to set pace -- Blake, Bainbridge, around Port Madison. Sis mostly steers in the kayak tied to mine, although often her paddle drags behind. Our needs are few, packed inside each end, the kayaks our lifeboats in an uncertain future. Days pass this way, waves crashing around us, flat sea beyond on lucky days. Sometimes sun bakes my brain, other times, I strain seawater with teeth. Salt cakes my face. Almost makes me forget the day I cracked.

     I sound like some kind of junkie, but no, that’s my dad’s trick, and see what good it done him. When Skipping Disease hit, Dad joined Scathe’s headbangers to get us disease freedom vaccine. Melvin Scathe owns Seattle, and more these days. We made out in their barricaded fortress until food became short and more refugees kept arriving and then Scathe instituted the “kill ‘em or work ‘em” policies to get farming back feeding folks. When dad chose to leave rather than kill--pow. A .357 shattered the back of his head. I saw the execution go down, got sister Fawn out, and we ran, and ran. That’s why I’m working my way north by sea, toward weak family ties, my first meeting with Scary Joe in mind.