Joan glared at Anne and Simon in turn but said no more.
After two hours of strenuous walking, Simon could see the coastline. Three or four hours—Eric must be a slow walker! Simon smiled and picked up his pace even more but the shore didn’t seem to get any closer.
‘What is this? A time warp?’ he grumbled as he checked his watch. Over three hours and still the ocean hovered on the horizon. Simon’s buoyant mood dissipated as he slogged on, determined not to give up.
His mind turned southward. He’d made arrangements to speak to his sergeant by radio while he was on holiday and all of a sudden he wanted to hear Bill’s gravelly voice. He wanted to know what was happening. Although one of the reasons for coming to Polar Bear Pass was to get away from the cloud of uncertainty hanging over him, now he felt too isolated. Had the board come to a decision? Did they believe Delio’s story? Would he be suspended … even charged with assault? Simon felt his fists clenching. Delio’s type didn’t deserve to live.
And his father … how was he? Simon knew the old man hated unfamiliar surroundings. Duncan and Pam would take good care of him, but still … Simon rubbed his chin. He realized he’d soon have to put his dad in a nursing home but he wasn’t looking forward to it. Even with his memory all but gone, his father instinctively fought the idea. Simon smiled ruefully. He was damned either way. Overwork or guilt would get him, but guilt was beginning to look easier to take. He couldn’t cope much longer and the expense of home nursing help was prohibitive. Simon trudged along on autopilot, his mind hundreds of miles away.
He was sweating when he finally arrived at the coast, but it was well worth the effort and his spirits rose. The sky was bluer than he would ever have believed possible and the ice was either clear like crystal or blindingly white. The emerald waves, crested with froth, were transparent as well and at times he could see the sunlight through them, giving him a glimpse into an alien world.
Simon took his time inflating the rubber raft, working the foot pedal rhythmically as he absorbed his surroundings. When that small task was accomplished he perched comfortably on a sun-warmed rock and munched a granola bar. This was more like it.
He marvelled that he could smell the utter cleanliness of the air. Granted there were flowers, tiny clumps of seaweed, and salt spume, but it was none of these which he smelled, at least not individually. It was better than any of those. Simon breathed in great lungfuls, feeling the tingle right down to his toes.
His pencil flew over the pages, capturing the mystique of the landscape with a minimum of strokes as he frantically tried to gather everything into his sketchbook. Rocks and waves, lichen and gulls, ice and whales, delicate flowers and overwhelming vistas were pulled from his surroundings and restrained in two dimensions of black and white and yet they lived. To Simon these two hours were worth two years of rock-carrying, post-pounding or dung-sifting.
When he had satisfied his need to draw, Simon turned again to the raft and manhandled it over the slippery rocks to the water which seethed and raced between the black boulders. The light craft bounced on the waves and Simon almost did the splits when the raft leapt seaward while he still had one foot on shore. But at last he was safely launched and he paddled three hundred yards from shore before relaxing to survey the scene.
Almost immediately he spotted a pod of narwhal swimming towards him. Through binoculars he watched them twist and turn fluidly in their element, staying just below the surface except when they came up to blow. Simon could feel the mist of their breath on his face. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their hoarse cries carried on the wind.
Gradually Simon realized the seat of his jeans was wet. He glanced down to see his raft riding low in the water and waves washing over the side. Hell, he was sinking! Frantically he searched for the leak. Not the valve. Not under him. Not on the gunwales. His probing fingers searched over the side and down under the water line but within seconds they were numb from cold. He felt what he thought was the hole but he couldn’t be sure.
He watched the dancing bubbles in horror. Were they getting more numerous? Was the hole getting bigger? He shifted, trying to see the gash but with every move the waves washed inside faster and the raft settled deeper into the water. It no longer danced on the waves but rode sluggishly, reluctantly, up and down on the swell. The shore looked a long way off.
The repair kit! With a rush of relief Simon remembered the repair kit kept in the pouch of each raft. The patches were supposed to stick even to wet rubber. Keeping his body as still as possible, he stretched to retrieve the kit from its storage place. Nothing. Simon leaned forward, recklessly causing a flood of water to wash in board. His fingers scrabbled in the corners of the pouch but it was no use. The repair kit was gone. He was in real trouble.
Tentatively he began paddling, altering his stroke in an attempt to minimize the water he was taking aboard while maximizing his speed towards shore. With narrowed eyes he tried to gauge his progress. It would be close. Should he swim for it? Simon tried to recall the statistics he’d read about survival times in arctic waters. Why hadn’t he paid more attention? Was it thirty seconds or thirty minutes?
‘Not thirty minutes,’ he decided aloud. ‘Five minutes, maybe?’
He tried to judge the distance to shore—two hundred yards at least. But he’d been terribly mistaken in his estimate while walking to the coast—maybe he was wrong again. And he wasn’t a strong swimmer.
‘You’re a fool to be out here alone,’ he cursed himself as he fought panic. ‘Paddle, idiot.’ He paddled desperately, awkwardly, trying to ignore the slopping of the water as it gurgled around his numb legs. The bottom edge of his jacket was submerged now and it acted like a wick, pulling the water upward, soaking his vest and shirt. Only his fear was keeping him warm.
The rubber boat was slowly folding up around him, trapping him in a rubber strait-jacket. He had to stretch to reach up and over the edge of the boat to keep the paddle in the water. The pressure of the collapsing boat was squeezing his legs painfully. When shore was still thirty yards away Simon knew he would soon be unable to kick free of the boat’s ever tighter embrace. He gritted his teeth and used every ounce of his strength on the puny paddle. Simon’s muscles were screaming in protest and the water was up to his chin when the bottom of the raft dragged on the stones. For a moment he was too dazed to realize he’d made it to shore but at last he staggered to his feet, fought off the raft, and struggled for the rocks. He collapsed in a wet heap, shivering with cold and exhaustion.
Ten minutes later, teeth chattering uncontrollably, Simon knew he would have to move. If he stayed still he would die of hypothermia. With numb fingers he fumbled at his zipper, then let the jacket plop to the hard stone where it lay weeping on to the gravel. He pulled on the dry toque he’d left on shore and each hair on his head was grateful for the warmth. He jumped up and down flapping his arms like an arthritic penguin.
‘I’ve got to get dry,’ he whispered hoarsely. He looked around. There was nothing to burn and besides, his matches were useless now. Why had he spurned the waterproof kind?
He stripped off his soaking clothes and wrung them out as much as his numb fingers could manage. Then with a shudder he wriggled back into the damp garments. Not much of an improvement, but it was the best he could do.
‘Camp,’ he mumbled. ‘Camp,’ he repeated clearly, forcing himself to action.
It was a nightmare journey. Time after time he stumbled and fell because his feet were too numb to feel the uneven surface. He was getting colder, not warmer, and a rime of ice formed on the seams of his clothing. The sun had disappeared behind an ominous cloud bank. ‘You don’t want to join Phillip Loew as a permanent resident,’ he told himself as he scrambled up yet another hill. ‘One more hour. Walk just one more hour and you’ll be home.’ He descended the next slope and splashed through the inevitable stream at the bottom. A thin film of ice tinkled into a thousand crystals.
‘Simon? Simon?’
The voice penetrated Simon’s daze at last and he peered around for the source.
‘Simon!’ Anne