Exercises in Avoidance

I pushed the boat from the dock as Bill coaxed the motor for a second time, urging it to take us from the shore. The sun was brilliant, the sky was blue, with cumulus piling up at the edges of the horizon.

Black dog sat at the hull, lunging at the wake as the boat left the safety of the harbor. Matt and I fought back frustration and defeat as we tried desperately to keep him in the boat and prevent our craft from capsizing. Our faces and shirts were becoming increasingly wet as streams of water jettisoned from the slapping nose of the boat. Our legs, feet and hands were soaked from black dog, palms thick with his nervously shed, coarse fur.

Our mates, Captain John, Marla and Lucy, in the adjacent boat pulled up beside us, the wake from their stable craft sending us lurching back and forth atop the choppy waves. Matt and I gripped the edges of our boat while holding black dog with our free hands. A nervous guffaw escaped from deep in my belly as I turned to wave at our comfortable, dry, and smooth sailing counterparts, forcing a calm smile across my face. As soon as they sped forward, Bill and I looked crossly at one another, tacitly shrugging away the irritation of the present situation.

Red dog, on the other hand, was quite comfortable with his position in the boat. Happily shifting from starboard to port, peering over the edge, smiling the classic dog smile.
"It's too heavy at the nose!" Bill commented, with a tinge of annoyance. He motioned for red dog to retreat to the helm. He did so with ease, and a jolly, reserved excitement, the most contented passenger aboard.

As we neared Bootjack, it became unnervingly clear that the motor in the new (albeit heavily used) boat would not tilt up, a fault that would prevent us from landing on shore. Captain John, manning the helm of the other, seaworthy craft, suggested that we change course and head for Espanore. He was eager to collect rocks, his interest in ancient geological eras peaked only by his desire to take up landscaping at his residence.

We agreed, and headed South to pass Bootjack. The boat pushed out into the Huron, waves growing in height and volume as we rounded the edge of the island. The little boat seemed to skip and lurch over the surface of the water, dipping violently in an uneven rhythm. Matt and I exchanged nervous glances, as we attempted to keep ourselves and black dog out of the churning waters.

As we neared Espanore, the uncertainty of safe passage from the West shoreline became evident, the inlet was shallow and precariously rocky.
I pleaded with Bill, "Please don't sink our boat!", my face contorted with fear and exasperation. Our two boat captains, Bill and John, conferred, deciding to retreat around Bootjack, and attempt landing on the North shore of Espanore.

So, we turned the small boat around, and followed Captain John back. We had to anchor about ten yards from the shore to avoid damaging the already damaged motor. Shoes would be removed, pant legs rolled, and a cold and treacherous walk across algae slicked rocks would find us safely upon the shore. The dogs had to also be negotiated, by pushing their behinds out of the boat, whereupon they surged through the shallows and onto the unexplored island. Marla and Lucy graciously helped me ashore, I felt like a hobbling old woman, although they are both my senior.

Bill found the first skull, a seagull, cleanly decayed and brittle. Our discovery was brushed aside, however, as the dark and looming clouds called our attention. A deep shade of blue-grey, and so difficult to judge their distance across the expanse of the Huron. Given the tumultuous ride under sunny skies, I prophesied to the group that unless we planned a retreat not unlike Gilligan's Island, we should push off for home. My request was promptly ignored by our confident captains, and with thunder rumbling, we continued our search for loot.

Lucy found the next skull, this time a raven, or large tern. Larger than the first. Shortly after this a third appeared. I wondered if I would have enough luck to find such a prize for myself. The third skull was discovered, however, by Marla and John, collectively. As with the other two skulls, they were brought directly to me. Each procurer of bones, without hesitation, immediately shouted "Here, Amy, I've found a skull for you!".
It made me happy to be the automatic receiver of such offerings. It also made me wonder what aspect of my personality prompted my family to give me the skulls of dead animals. Regardless, it seemed only appropriate, and I immediately coveted all three. Perhaps it is my propensity for arts and crafts, spontaneous creation, which often occurs during idle moments on the island. Or maybe it is my self proclaimed association with owls, birds known for their link to death and other dark subjects. All I know is the mystery intrigues me, lures me into it's dark corridors, and often guides my creation, albeit a stark contradiction.

A macabre thought occurred to me as I scanned the rocky shoreline for my own prized bird skull. The dangerous clouds threatening us, coupled with the inevitable boat ride in our near future, brought thoughts of my Grandpa to the surface. The fearful memory of his accidental and devastating drowning hung like a shadow, clouding my thoughts. Perhaps the discovery of the skulls were a harbinger of imminent death. And whoever was so unfortunate to stumble upon said item would face his or her demise in the turbid waters of the Huron.

My search quickly became an exercise in avoidance, but also an acceptance of an inevitable truth. That being, you can't screw with fate. And not unlike Grandpa, if death is knocking, and you aren't answering, it will let it's ghastly self in.

That afternoon, we found several rocks, worthy of Captain John's yard beautification projects. We found beautiful driftwood, peculiar manmade objects that had drifted ashore, and plenty of otter shit, but no more skulls. We clamored back to the boats, and skimmed the surface of the water towards the main island, the thunderheads at our backs. Nightfall found us safely tucked into our beds, bellies full and fireplace roaring. In the midst of a mayfly hatch, deep in the night, the storm came, and nobody met their death.