Bone Deep by Gina McMurchy-Barber Page A

seat cushion to him. Whatever you do, don’t jump into the water to assist. That could mean two drowned crew members.” I suddenly realized those last words were written by Captain Whittaker in his log as he watched poor Albert Smedley drowning. The memory of it oozed back into my mind like soggy mud and made me shudder. I was glad that I was a strong swimmer.
    â€œGood work, Peggy. Now I can see why Edwina has so much faith in you. You’re a bright young lady.” I squirmed as the rest of the crew applauded — well, everyone except Dr. Sanchez. “Okay, it’s getting late. We’re going to let down anchor and catch a few hours of sleep.” I glanced out the porthole and was glad to see the town of Powell River nearby.
    â€œDr. Hunter … I mean Captain Hunter … it’s only eight thirty. I’m a kid, and even I never go to bed this early.”
    â€œBy the time we secure the boat, update our location with the Coast Guard, and tuck ourselves in it will be nine p.m. We’re up again at three thirty so we can get an early start before the wind and waves pick up.”
    Up at 3:30 a.m.? What was the point of going to sleep at all?
    Soon enough everyone aboard was fast asleep … everyone except me. I had all the ingredients for a good sleep … cozy berth, gentle waves, my favourite pillow from home … and I’d had a long and exciting day. But all the same I couldn’t sleep a wink. I reasoned it must have been because of the nap I’d had earlier in the day after reading Captain Whittaker’s journal. I tossed for a while longer hoping that I’d eventually nod off, but soon I knew it was futile. I had the top bunk so when I quietly rolled out of bed I did my best not to rest my feet on Amanda’s bunk. I sighed with relief when I heard her snoring softly. Then I made my way down the narrow hall, passed the engine room, which was eerily quiet, and on to the galley. I flicked on the small lamp that set off a warm glow in the tiny room. I noticed for the first time a small bookshelf above the porthole. On it was a neat row of books. I scanned the titles: Essays in Maritime Archaeology; Techniques for Identifying Trade Beads; Historic Relations Between European Traders and First Nations of the Northwest; and Methods for Preserving Artifacts Removed From a Saltwater Environment. They were all titles that would put your typical kid to sleep — but not me. I was about to reach for the book on preserving artifacts when I noticed another neat row of books — novels with covers worn from years of use. Maybe this is where I’d find myself a nice bedtime story. I scanned the titles: The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner; The Ghost Pirates; The Flying Dutchman; Curse of the Black Pearl; Pirates of the Caribbean . Not exactly the kind of stories that sweet dreams were made of, but maybe I could at least tire myself out with one of them. I pulled down Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. I’d never read it, but I remembered Uncle Stewart saying it was one of his favourite books when he was my age.
    From the moment I cracked open the dry old pages on that leather bound book I was hooked. Treasure Island was not one of those stories you start and then put down easily. The kid, Jim, seemed to be close to getting his throat slit, like, five times in the first three chapters. What was the matter with this guy … he should have known from the moment that the old pirate showed up at his father’s inn that trouble was close behind. Just when things were getting really tense I heard a noise coming from outside the boat — like water splashing. It gave me a creepy feeling, especially since I was alone. Well, I wasn’t actually alone, but with everyone asleep it sure felt that way. I knew I was a little jumpy just because my imagination was already in high gear. I’d just come to the end of the scene where Jim and his mom heard the