Page 48 of Untamed Coast

Marco did not want to miss the window.

Not by too much, at least.

He handed Bill his stabilized binoculars. “Take a look. We’re still a bit early. Let’s just motor around out here and keep an eye on the entrance.” He showed Bill how to adjust the focus knob. The tidal rapids were flowing strong into Ford’s Terror, with sharp whitecaps atop large standing waves.

Bill gasped. “That’s terrifying! You sure we can get in there?”

Marco bumped the throttle to keep the bow pointed toward the opening. “In a little while, it should calm down for a few minutes. That’s when we make our move. Then with the tidal shift, it’ll reverse and start ripping through going the other direction. And this is nothing,” Marco said, making no effort to calm Bill’s nerves. “When the ebb current is in full force, there can be a three-foot overfall right there, and big whirlpools just outside.”

Bill put the binoculars down on the helm. “Tour Alaska. Die in style!”

The white water started to abate a little, and the current was beginning to slow. Marco planned to go through on the early side. He turned Radio Flyer away from the entrance toward a giant waterfall that cascaded down the face of a cliff. “We always…I…always start with the boat at that waterfall, then aim straight toward the opening from there. The nautical charts of this place are completely wrong, but very few people come here, and they haven’t resurveyed and updated the charts in decades. Our path will take us right over this spot where the chart shows a submerged rock. It’s not there, luckily. Ready to do this?”

Bill exhaled loudly. “I got no choice but to trust you.”

“It’s now or never.” Marco keyed the radio microphone. “Sécurité, sécurité, sécurité—Radio Flyer—fifty-foot motor vessel will be entering Ford’s Terror in one minute. Any concerned vessels respond on one-six.”

Bill picked up the binoculars for another look. “Jeez.”

Marco touched the top of the snow globe at the helm.

One more time.

Marco revved the big diesel, propelling Radio Flyer toward the rapids. “Standard protocol is to make a sécurité call to let anyone who might be coming out know that we are on the way in. Definitely don’t want to meet another boat going the other way through the narrows.”

The current was still with them, pushing the boat much faster through the dangerous turn at the entrance. Marco wondered if he’d gone too early. It would be really tight. He steered the boat along the tongue of the rapids as they approached the hard right turn.

He gunned the engine to gain more steerage as the flood pushed the big boat hard toward the rocks. A strong eddy twisted them violently. Marco spun the wheel the other way and gave it full power, holding the stern narrowly off the rock wall. The rudder caught some grip and Radio Flyer lurched toward the opposite side of the narrow channel.

The current was pushing the boat almost sideways.

Marco jerked back on the power, then tapped reverse to slow their momentum. A sharp rock outcropping passed just off the bow. He popped the boat back into forward gear and spun the wheel to bring her back into line.

The current eddies began to subside as the boat slipped into the wider channel.

He relaxed his grip on the wheel.

They were in.

Definitely pushed it a bit too early this time.

Bill was sitting still, staring wide-eyed out the pilothouse window. “I had no idea”—his voice trembled—“you were into such extreme activities.”

Marco ran his hand across the smooth glass of the snow globe that sat at the helm, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped off the fingerprints. He could feel Bill’s eyes scrutinizing his every move.

“So, what’s up with the snow globe, Marc?” Bill asked. “Doesn’t seem like your style exactly.”

Marco’s chest tightened. He swallowed. “Michelle and I always dreamed of retiring and taking our own boat to Alaska.” His throat constricted. He paused and steadied his voice. “The day after we finally crossed Dixon Entrance and cleared customs in Ketchikan, Michelle made a big formal ceremony on the boat and presented me with this five-dollar snow globe as a trophy for making it to Alaska. It was corny and silly and I loved it.”

He picked up the snow globe and turned it over, letting the slow-swirling glitter calm him as it settled on plastic Creek Street. He exhaled and gathered his strength to continue. “This place—Ford’s Terror—was the last place we ever visited together.”

He gave the snow globe one more swirl and set it in its place at the helm.

Bill’s hand landed on Marco’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Clear of the rapids, Marco followed the long inlet along a steep rocky cliff into the main body of the fjord. The boat swerved gently from side to side, pushed by residual boils and eddies that swirled through the passage as the tidal current reversed direction. The swerving subsided and the boat settled into a watery wonderland, easily the size and grandeur of Yosemite. Bill and Marco were the only two humans there.

“Looks like it could be just us for the next twenty-four hours,” Marco said. “The next high slack tide is around midnight—and I can’t imagine anyone brave enough to try that entrance in the dark.”