Page 25 of Untamed Coast

Transmitter Type BC-127

Used with Radio Tel & Telset Type SCR-132

Manufactured by Western Electric Corporation

Curious. Almost absurd. A man lived alone here, operating a complex radio setup. Cutting-edge technology at the time, mixed with hardcore subsistence living. No power. No fresh water. Days of travel to any civilization. Marco felt a connection to this fellow, charting his own course, surviving on his own wherewithal.

What else was Joe Baxter up to out here in the middle of nowhere?

In the bay, Radio Flyer swung with the breeze on her anchor. The stainless brightwork gleamed in the morning sun, and the glassy sea reflected the white hull and continued the line of the anchor rode where it entered the water. Lofty cumulus clouds drifted by. A single eagle circled overhead, lazily riding the thermals.

Marco wrapped the attached cables around the device. Pain shot through his shoulder as he hefted it into a carrying position.

The SSB static in Radio Flyer’s pilothouse continued, steady as a mountain stream.

Presumed dead.

She was supposed to be here.

Knees weak, he stacked the old radio on the table and sagged into the pilothouse seat.

Why’d I bring that damn thing back, anyway? What’s the point?

He was out of ideas and out of time. He was still two days from Juneau, where his friend Bill would be waiting for him. He’d been excited to give Bill the full tour of Southeast Alaska. Now, it was hard to see how he’d muster the energy to be a decent host, but he knew the trip was a big deal for Bill.

His chest heaved, and he struggled to contain tears as the dread of powerlessness overwhelmed him. She was supposed to be here, but she was slipping away, hope was slipping away, Michelle was slipping away in the awful cacophony of the hospital machines beep beep beeping.

Gutted once again by his memories, he lifted the snow globe from the helm. Sparkling snowflakes swirled around the Chief Johnson totem pole as it reached for the heavens from behind St. John’s Episcopal Church. White glitter accumulated on the wings of the Cessna floatplane and drifted down onto the plastic boardwalk that connected the row of red, blue, and pale-green brothel buildings along Ketchikan’s Creek Street.

Marco plotted a course for Juneau. Two-day trip if the weather held. He’d arrive just in time to get Bill from the airport.

His watch showed ten after ten.

Timex time.

Marco was back in Ketchikan, Michelle leading him by the hand, threading through the cruise-ship crowds along Water Street. They’d ducked into a small alcove in front of a store with big signs touting discounts on tanzanite jewelry. She’d leaned in to him, arms looped gently around his neck.

They both hated the crowds, and even just the thought of being stuck for days on a ship with thousands of vacationers had made them resolve never to take a cruise. Too crowded. Too scheduled. They’d always preferred the slow rhythm of their own boat. Quiet anchorages. Breakfasts alone. No PA system announcements.

The quiet isolation aboard Radio Flyer had always been more their speed, and over the last decade they’d spent as much time cruising as the constraints of their careers would allow.

Now that they were retired and living their dream to take the boat to Alaska, fighting their way through hordes of ambling tourists was the last thing they wanted. Still, today they’d gone for a nice quiet breakfast and were on their way back to the boat harbor when the first ship arrived, dumping multitudes of selfie-stick-wielding holiday adventurers onto the streets.

“This won’t get better,” Michelle had said, glancing up the street. She held out her wrist and grinned. “Ten-ten. Timex time!”

Marco was confused. “What?”

A playful smile lit up Michelle’s face. She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the jewelry store to the counter where they sold Swiss watches to tourists.

Marco could never understand why people bought Rolex watches while vacationing in Alaska. It seemed all wrong.

“Look,” she said. “Timex time. All the watches—set to 10:10. Always. It frames the logo and looks like a smile.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but he’d loved that she knew that. That she noticed things.

She’d always worn a watch. Always. So when the funeral director asked what to do with it, Marco hadn’t hesitated. “Leave it with her,” he’d said. “She never took it off.”

But the watch came back. When he opened the box to transfer her ashes to the urn, there it was, in a plastic bag alongside her wedding ring, her watch, set to 10:10.