inside,” I said.
“Yeah, I do,” she said, her teeth now clenched together. “It’s cutting, Max. I can feel it. We just gotta hope it isn’t near an artery.”
“You’re right. But we can splint it,” I said. “God knows there are enough pieces of slat wood here to do that. Maybe strap it in place with the duct tape. That’ll keep it straight when we load you into the canoe.”
Now she was looking more skeptical than pained.
“Got to, Sherry. Time isn’t helping us any here.”
“I know,” she answered. “But I was just getting comfortable, you know?”
“That’a girl,” I answered, again complimenting her guts and hopefully encouraging her spirit for what was going to be one hell of an ordeal we both knew was coming.
I used the rest of the roll of tape on the hull of the canoe, first folding a piece of a Rubbermaid dish drainer from under the sink to cover the hole and then strapping it in place with the duct tape. While working on the patch I’d found three other punctures and a cracked rib toward the bow, but was sure the boat would still float. My next task was to find a replacement for the missing paddles and I discovered a long curved piece of mahogany under some debris that I recognized as once being the plaque backing for a bonefish trophy that Jeff Snow had mounted and displayed on one of the camp walls. The edges were smooth for grasping and pulling strokes. It would do.
I salvaged a plastic container that once held coffee and stuffed the last of the water bottles in. We could use it to bail water if we had to. I put it in the canoe under the stern seat along with the flashlight and then stored the headless shaft of the golf club along the boat’s spine. Though I knew there had once been several flotation cushions and some lifejackets for the Snows’ children here, I couldn’t find a sign of one. A damp, fabric-covered couch pillow was the best we had left. I propped it in the bow. With everything set I dragged the canoe over to the west side of the remaining deck and slid it onto the water. Sherry was next and I flexed my jaw and moved over to her, clearing a trail of any sharp debris or nail heads, anything that might catch her clothes. I knew how much it was going to hurt to move her and she knew it too.
“I’m going to get you under the arms and kind of drag you to the canoe,” I said. “I figure it’s the best way to keep the leg from bending.”
“Oooh, big cave man. How about just grabbing a hunk of hair,” she said, again with the forced grin. I shook my head.
“Then I can lower you into the bow. You use that pillow for your head and prop the leg up on the seat. That’ll keep it elevated and maybe reduce some of the blood flow,” I said.
She nodded her head, steeled herself as I got a grip under her arms and lifted her. Only then did she begin to cry.
TWELVE
Harmon and his wife had stayed all night in the den that he’d built, at considerable expense, just for this. But he did not gloat over his foresight. He held his wife’s hand while they watched the breathless weather reporters correct themselves every thirty minutes and then unabashedly make yet another bold prediction of the hurricane’s path and speed and level of ferocity. The storm had gained in strength in the Gulf and then had taken a completely unforeseen loop and then charged due east into the South Florida peninsula. The red- dotted depiction of her path looked like a comical ampersand on the television screen, but Harmon was too scared for levity. Simone came ashore just south of Sanibel Island as a category three, and according to the supposed “hurricane hunter” aircraft, she maintained her bitchiness and speed right up until the Harmons’ power went out and left them sitting in the dark, nothing but the familiar touch of their hands and the sound of the wind bringing its terrifying memories. Harmon assured his wife for yet another of the uncountable times of their safety. He’d
“Yeah, I do,” she said, her teeth now clenched together. “It’s cutting, Max. I can feel it. We just gotta hope it isn’t near an artery.”
“You’re right. But we can splint it,” I said. “God knows there are enough pieces of slat wood here to do that. Maybe strap it in place with the duct tape. That’ll keep it straight when we load you into the canoe.”
Now she was looking more skeptical than pained.
“Got to, Sherry. Time isn’t helping us any here.”
“I know,” she answered. “But I was just getting comfortable, you know?”
“That’a girl,” I answered, again complimenting her guts and hopefully encouraging her spirit for what was going to be one hell of an ordeal we both knew was coming.
I used the rest of the roll of tape on the hull of the canoe, first folding a piece of a Rubbermaid dish drainer from under the sink to cover the hole and then strapping it in place with the duct tape. While working on the patch I’d found three other punctures and a cracked rib toward the bow, but was sure the boat would still float. My next task was to find a replacement for the missing paddles and I discovered a long curved piece of mahogany under some debris that I recognized as once being the plaque backing for a bonefish trophy that Jeff Snow had mounted and displayed on one of the camp walls. The edges were smooth for grasping and pulling strokes. It would do.
I salvaged a plastic container that once held coffee and stuffed the last of the water bottles in. We could use it to bail water if we had to. I put it in the canoe under the stern seat along with the flashlight and then stored the headless shaft of the golf club along the boat’s spine. Though I knew there had once been several flotation cushions and some lifejackets for the Snows’ children here, I couldn’t find a sign of one. A damp, fabric-covered couch pillow was the best we had left. I propped it in the bow. With everything set I dragged the canoe over to the west side of the remaining deck and slid it onto the water. Sherry was next and I flexed my jaw and moved over to her, clearing a trail of any sharp debris or nail heads, anything that might catch her clothes. I knew how much it was going to hurt to move her and she knew it too.
“I’m going to get you under the arms and kind of drag you to the canoe,” I said. “I figure it’s the best way to keep the leg from bending.”
“Oooh, big cave man. How about just grabbing a hunk of hair,” she said, again with the forced grin. I shook my head.
“Then I can lower you into the bow. You use that pillow for your head and prop the leg up on the seat. That’ll keep it elevated and maybe reduce some of the blood flow,” I said.
She nodded her head, steeled herself as I got a grip under her arms and lifted her. Only then did she begin to cry.
TWELVE
Harmon and his wife had stayed all night in the den that he’d built, at considerable expense, just for this. But he did not gloat over his foresight. He held his wife’s hand while they watched the breathless weather reporters correct themselves every thirty minutes and then unabashedly make yet another bold prediction of the hurricane’s path and speed and level of ferocity. The storm had gained in strength in the Gulf and then had taken a completely unforeseen loop and then charged due east into the South Florida peninsula. The red- dotted depiction of her path looked like a comical ampersand on the television screen, but Harmon was too scared for levity. Simone came ashore just south of Sanibel Island as a category three, and according to the supposed “hurricane hunter” aircraft, she maintained her bitchiness and speed right up until the Harmons’ power went out and left them sitting in the dark, nothing but the familiar touch of their hands and the sound of the wind bringing its terrifying memories. Harmon assured his wife for yet another of the uncountable times of their safety. He’d
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