Riptides by Pierce Scranton

Riptides by Pierce Scranton

Tyler Michelson was eight the first time he saw Useless Bay. It was the biggest sandbox he’d ever seen in the whole wide world. The pristine beach stretched from their summer cabin on the dike, a half mile out, all the way to Puget Sound’s drop-off. He could see Seattle in the distance. He and his playmates could dig sandcastles or build driftwood forts to their heart’s content. Even better, the ocean’s tides scoured the beach like a “Magic Slate,” erasing whatever sandcastle or fort had been built. The next morning, a half mile of pristine beach called again. The rat pack, a collection of kids on the beach, started their mornings by running past the sand dollars that carpeted the beach and the Horse clams that spat water when you stomped them, to watch the drama of Ospreys plummeting from hundreds of feet, diving for flounder at the drop-off. Then was the time for building castles.

As the summers went by, Tyler graduated from being part of the rat pack, to becoming its leader. It was a time of innocence, of roasting S’mores around evening campfires, of Dad telling ghost stories, or having pillow fights. Summers at their cabin seemed so tranquil, so beautiful, it was hard to imagine anything going wrong.

One day, an empty rowboat belonging to vacationers that rented four houses down the beach was found floating in the middle of the Sound. It belonged to a retired couple from Connecticut. The husband had built the boat by hand, using thin oak planks secured by wooden dowels with finely sanded teak seats. Shiny brass oar locks and scooped oars completed this prize. He showed it Tyler one day, explaining how sturdy it was, while running hands lovingly along the polished flanks. Evenings, they’d row by, waving gaily to the neighbors sitting on their decks. She dressed in an LL Bean knit sweater with a jaunty floppy hat. He, a sports jacket with a nautical crest on the breast pocket. His measured strokes took them past the row of homes, his pipe lit, trailing streams of blue smoke in the evening breeze.

“Prim and proper and always polite,” his mom said. “But definitely east coast. They keep to themselves.”

They’d did this in the evenings once the weather set down. Weeks passed. A strong north wind came up. Two days later, the empty boat was discovered. Locals at the Grange couldn’t help talking about the bizarre winds that had sprung up, speculating on the carelessness the couple. ‘Dang fool tourists . . . never saw either of them wear a life jacket.’ The husband and wife were never seen again.

Safety became an issue; Tyler’s days of carefree play transformed. His father had been on a Navy destroyer during the Korean War and was a stickler for procedure. In the beginning, many of his safety talks went in one of Ty’s ears and out the other. But after the disappearance of the couple, the lecturing began in earnest—particularly on respecting nature.

Because Ty had become the leader of the rat pack, his father insisted he keep an eye out for the rest of the kids. Ty didn’t argue, though deep down he knew that water balloon fights or playing King of the Hill was where the real fun lay. Besides, he thought he was an expert on nature. Already. He’d gotten very good at trapping the delicious Dungeness crab lurking at the edge of the drop off. Ty knew the best places to set the traps, and how to find horse clams or sand shrimp for bait. The main drawback was lugging the baited trap for almost a half-a-mile at low tide. But he’d do this, letting the trap sit for a tide cycle. And at the next morning’s low tide, he’d make the trek to see what treasures awaited.

Why high and low tide times changed each day remained a mystery. But the tide tables were easily found in a little booklet on their kitchen counter. His dad would remind him too. “Don’t forget, tomorrow’s low tide is ten minutes earlier. No sleeping in, no excuses.” He’d drag himself from bed to trudge in the early morning light across the sand, harvest the crab, and rebait the trap. It made him proud to give big fat crabs to neighbors whose traps came up empty.

Once, just once, he slept in. Days later, low tide cycled back to dawn. Dad pulled him from bed to make the walk. They found a dozen dead crabs in the trap, killed by his carelessness. “Take responsibility, Tyler. It’s part of growing up. Being forgetful is not an acceptable excuse.”

His punishment was to carry the pot back to the cabin. “No more crabbing until I decide you’re more responsible.”

The next morning his father made a point of checking on him. “Before I catch the ferry, what’s today’s program?”

 “The usual . . .” he answered. “The kids at the beach want to build a sand fort at o-nine hundred.” He knew dad liked it when Tyler reverted to nautical talk. “By coincidence, shoveling the sand uncovers sand shrimp. The tide table has a high slack tide at seven this evening—the best time to fish.” His eyes danced with excitement. A Cheshire cat might have been jealous, seeing the grin.

“Don’t forget the life jacket.”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean it, Ty. No jacket. No fishing.”

“Read you loud and clear, sir.”

His father’s smile was patient. “Enjoy the remaining summer. Fair warning: real life is on the horizon. We’ll talk about that soon.”

Ty had an inkling about what his father meant. His tee shirts from last year no longer fit, he was two inches taller. That very morning he’d nicked his chin¾his first shave! Looking in the mirror, he couldn’t help boasting. Yep, fifteen, going on grown.

Mom had interrupted this. “For heaven’s sake, stop gawking. My Canasta group arrives in a half hour. Say goodbye to your father, then skedaddle.”

The kids on the beach broke into cheer with his arrival. He’d promised they’d build the biggest and bestest most magical fort ever! They and Captain Ty would defend it from pirates, water balloon barrages, and the incoming tide. He choose the spot, then used a shovel to mark a circle in the sand. “Come on, mates, we’ll dig the moat, throwing the sand in the middle.”

“Fort Whidbey” began to rise.

After a half an hour of shoveling, he paused to stretch his back and check the shrimp bucket. Half full; the kids had helped. Across from him, Cassie O’Brien and her brother were shoveling. Little Eric used a plastic toy shovel, just like Tyler had his very first time. Cassie dug with a regular garden spade. Droplets of perspiration trickled down the neck and over the curve of her shoulder. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t help following their path.

She looked up, caught his eyes, and held his stare.

He blushed and turned away. Last night, she’d invited him to sneak into a teen dance at the Grange. Smarting from dad’s lecture about the crab pot, he’d declined. What had happened to the tomboy that used to race him up and down the beach? The reverie was interrupted by a skinny finger of sea water trickling into the moat. The kids shouted, “Captain, the fort’s being attacked!”

“Avast, mates, stop the moat from filling.”

He played to them, remembering when he was the twerp on the beach. Back then, the older kids had let him play. Two rat pack kids leaped over the moat and onto the mound, dancing a silly jig. The rest threw clumps of dried seaweed or pelted them with water balloons they’d hidden in a bucket.

Ty commanded, “Dig the moat deeper, ye swabbies!”

At that moment, a kid riding a chestnut-colored horse slipped over the dike to canter across the sandy flats. Riding bareback, he made it look easy-like, as comfortable as any other kid might look, cruising on a bike. As he approached, he seemed to grow in size. He wore a South Whidbey High varsity football tee shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

The horse whinnied as it cantered toward them, its ears perked up. The rider pulled on the reins; his biceps flexed. The horse shook its black mane, then snorted. The kids stopped shoveling. Everyone paused to admire the horse, their eyes wide with expectation. The horse in turn whickered, swishing its tail back and forth and flicking at the flies. The rider leaned back, studying them while stroking his own sprouting whiskers. Silvered aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

“Hop down and join us. Have some fun.” Tyler invited.

The kid didn’t answer at first, then said, “I don’t mess with renters.“

“With what?”

“Renters. You know, people who don’t belong here. Me? I live here. But you’re a bunch of sissified Seattle assholes who rent for the summer. You don’t belong.”

“That man said a bad word,” Cassie’s brother said. He dropped his toy shovel and turned to run home.

Tyler planted his shovel. “Look, we’re just having fun. Like I said, you’re welcome. But if you don’t want to, buzz off.”

The kid’s eyes lingered on Cassie. “My beach, kid, not yours. I go where I want. Might be I’ll ride Shadow right through your stupid little sandcastle.” He kicked his heels against the horse’s flanks. It lurched ahead, but when its haunches floundered in the water-filled moat, it’s eyes rolled, and nostrils flared.

Cassie threw her arms in the air, yelling, “Stop!”

The horse reared, then bucked, throwing the kid off to land in the sand on his back. He pushed himself up, his face flushed. “You bitch!”

Cassie’s eyes grew wide. Time froze.

Within Tyler something snapped, something that swept his naivety away . . . He charged. Throwing a furious flurry of punches, he knocked the kid down and bloodied his nose. “Take it back!”

The kid scrambled up, holding his nose, then blanching when he saw the blood. “Why you . . . “

Tyler planted his feet. “You don’t own this beach. Get out of here,”

The horse started lopping off. The kid saw this and cursed under his breath, scrambling backwards. He turned tail to catch the reins, calling over his shoulder, “Wasn’t for my horse, I’d knock you silly.”

Tyler had never been in a fight. His dad had taught him how to box and protect himself; they still practiced. Dad had always said, “Go for the nose, their eyes will water, they won’t be able to see.”

That he’d actually throw a punch had never occurred to him. Wasn’t fighting the stuff of cowboy movies, like John Wayne westerns or the Avengers? In the movies, despite the actors pounding each other, no one got bloodied. It shocked Tyler, seeing the fresh blood running. But up and down the dike, screen doors started swinging open as watchful mothers called to their children. The rat pack of castle-builders scrambled for home, leaving Tyler standing on the empty beach. How had this happened? Could he slip back in time to wake up with a King’s-X? He’d give anything to go back to that enchanting time of sandcastles and water balloon fights. The veneer of innocent play had been stripped to reveal the real world.

 & & &

Evening found Tyler on the beach next to a small Sorensen fiberglass skiff loaded with oars, his fishing pole, a life jacket, and the bucket of sand shrimp. High slack tide approached, that magical time when fishing in Puget Sound was at its best. And if ever there was enduring passion, it was Tyler’s love of fishing. He watched an Osprey turning in lazy circles over the bay, until its wings crimped and it plummeted toward the ocean, striking the surface. Now that’s a true fisherman, he thought. Every dive was a gamble for life: the fish’s, sometimes the Osprey’s life. He wiggled his toes in wet sand with delicious anticipation, thinking about Dr. Seuss’s book, “McElligott’s Pond:” You just never knew. Dr. Suess was right.

“Going all by yourself?”

“Cassie!”

Her eyes snapped with mischief, her smile revealing the faintest trace of lipstick and perfect, even white teeth. Where was the tomboy? Who was this? She wore a navy fleece jacket and a pair of blue jeans, dressed to fight the evening chill. The evening breezes blew strands of hair across her face. She tugged a Huskies baseball cap on and tucked her hair within it. “There.”

“Good thing you dressed for it,” Tyler said. “Wind from the north means fair weather, but it gets cold on the water.”

She tilted her head coyly. “I wonder why certain people never ask others to fish with them.”

“I’ll get another life jacket.”

“What for? All you do is tie your skiff to the buoy in the middle of the bay.”

“I didn’t know you watched.” He saw her blush, rejoicing that he’d gotten in a little jab. “Dad’s rules. Never go out without a life jacket. You just never know . . .”

“Whatever.”

They clambered into the skiff. He rowed to a buoy anchored several hundred yards offshore, tying the bowline to it. Then he hooked a sand shrimp on and passed the pole to Cassie, cursing to himself because his hand had been shaking so much that he’d stabbed his finger with the hook.

“Let the line out until it hits bottom. It’s shallow here, eight feet at most. Just jig the pole up and down.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll see.”

After two jigs, the rod tip jerked once, then bent violently into a C. Fishing line began screaming off the reel, panic filled her eyes. “Oh my God, take it!”

“No, no. You’re the one who wanted to fish. Start reeling.”

She fumbled with the winder. “The line’s still going out.”

 “The drag’s just right. It’ll stop.”

“It . . . it did.”

“Right. It’s probably a sand shark, a dogfish. They never run far. Can you feel him shaking his head?”

Her eyes widened. “I can.”

“It’s probably one angry shark, tricked by yours truly. Reel him in.”

In short order, a three-foot sand shark thrashed and banged its head alongside the boat. Cassie started to reach over the rail to lift it, but Tyler grabbed her hand. “Don’t! It’s got a stinger in its back fin. See how it’s arching, trying to jab?”

He groped through his tackle box for the hook release tool. But before he found it, the shark bit through the leader and swam away. “Damn, I lost my hook.”

Cassie laughed. “Never mind. I’m sure it’s not the first hook you’ve ever lost.” She sat watching him make a double clinch knot, tying on another hook. “You know, Ty, that kid who showed up on the horse, he was at the Grange the other night. He tried acting cool, coming on with his buddy who had a car. He was wearing the same sunglasses he wore today, like he was from Miami Vice or something. He and his buddy got mouthy, so I told them to get lost.”

A gust of wind blew her cap off, upside down on the bottom of the skiff. When Tyler handed it back, their hands touched. He caught her eye, letting his hand linger. “Wind’s up. I’m surprised. It usually sets down by now.”

“Well, aren’t you just the wise old man.” Her eyes flashed.

Tyler saw the flash, knowing that she thought she’d scored one. But then he saw that he’d been such a bundle of nerves while tying on a new hook, he hadn’t realized the skiff’s knot had untied from the buoy. They’d drifted several hundred yards away. “Damn.” He bent his back against the oars to row back, but the earlier breeze had become a more insistent force.

“Ty? I told a fib. I didn’t actually want to go fishing. I wanted to say how brave you were when that bully rode the horse onto the castle. I think he wanted to show off because my friend and I wouldn’t go with them.” She tossed her head. “He got what he deserved.”

 “Dad got mad about the fight. He almost grounded me from fishing.”

She touched his hand holding on the oar. “You were brave.”

He risked looking into her eyes. His hand felt like it was on fire. Maybe he wouldn’t wash it tonight.

The wind strengthened, so he picked up the pace, rowing forcefully to gain the beach. After twenty strokes, the cabin lights on shore didn’t seem any closer. Wind-driven whitecaps began gliding past, ocean foam danced from the tip from one wave to the next. A sliver of fear winnowed it’s way into his heart. He remembered the Connecticut couple.

“Cassie, this wind isn’t going to set down.” He knew they were well past the drop off, actually, into the sound.

 “Make sure your coat’s zipped up. Also, that you’ve clicked each fastener on the life jacket. A while back, it blew like this. A couple visiting from Connecticut got in trouble. Dad explained that the atmospheric pressure sometimes builds on the north side of Whidbey. When it sets up right, it blows right through the funnel created by Holmes Harbor and across from where we live. I’ll try to row us to the lee side of Double Bluff. We’ll be protected behind the bluff.“

“Mr. Boy Scout.” She laughed weakly. “Thanks for the science lesson.”

As he angled toward Double Bluff’s sand cliffs, another of dad’s sayings popped to mind. Go with the flow, Ty, don’t fight it. He knew that if he got caught in a tide rip, he shouldn’t fight it. Eventually, he’d slip free.

Cassie grasped his arm. “I can’t help being scared. Could you row a little harder or at least do something to get us home?”

He nodded with false confidence, then pulled for all he was worth against the current. I can do it, he thought. Never mind Dad.

A gust hit just as he thrust with an oar, twisting the skiff sideways. The left oarlock snapped, ripping the oar from his hand. It drifted away. “Oh damn!”

“Ty?” She clutched his arm, her knuckles were white.

He caught her eye in an effort to instill quiet confidence. “As long as we stay with the boat, we’re fine. Dad had floatation pumped into the hull. We can’t sink.” It was only last year when the Sorenson came back heavier, injected with foam. ‘How will I row?’ he’d complained. His skinny arms and small hands could barely control the oars. Now that he’d grown, he knew that with the extra floatation, they’d be safe. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to dad.

“The way this wind is blowing, hypothermia is a risk.” He spoke calmly, trying to not alarm her. “I’m not trying to get fresh, but we should scoot together and face the same way. I’ll throw the shrimp out of the bucket and tie it to the bowline, just to be sure we don’t lose it.”

“You’re really scaring me. Why would we need the bucket?”

He didn’t answer, instead scooted forward on the center bench. Cassie pivoted and they scooted together. He put his arms around her lifejacket. “Don’t freak out. If we sit tight and stay with the skiff, we’ll be okay. You’ll see; someone will come.”

She shivered within his arms.

Evening waned and the night grew pitch-black. Three-foot waves rolled by; the Sorenson easily rode them. Sometimes a wave broke over the rail, but Ty used the bucket to bail. Once, the boat violently lurched, and Cassie cried out

“Must have hit a tide rip,” he said. “Today, there’s a ten-foot differential. It’s just switched from incoming to outgoing.”

“For God’s sake, stop telling me everything. Just hang onto me. I’m scared to death.”

“Sorry, I’m thinking out loud. I’m scared enough, myself.”

“Can we huddle? I’m freezing.”

Overhead, a brilliant carpet of stars stretched from north to south, fading into the glow of “Seattle’s night lights. “It’s the Milky Way,” he said. She didn’t answer. Tyler felt sure they’d been taken into the middle of the Sound. He could see a small boat’s running lights bobbing up and down in the distance. Was someone looking for them?On his left, a beam of light strobed from Bush Point’s lighthouse. The out-going tide had carried them into the sound and at least five miles north of Useless Bay.

“Ty? I have to pee.” She whispered with an urgency.

“Oh?”

“If I don’t go now, I’m going to mess my pants.”

“Look, it’s dark. Use the bucket. What with the boat pitching, I’ll help steady you.”

“This is humiliating . . .“ She choked back the tears. “You’ll see me pee.”

“It’s nothing, Cass.”

She half stood, clutching the rail while Tyler held onto her lifejacket. He waited until she’d kicked one leg out of her jean’s pants leg and the underwear, then positioned the bucket. After she finished, she pulled her jeans up and stopped crying.

“Nothing to it. Didn’t see a thing.”

He dumped the bucket over the side, then swished seawater around the pail. “Look, I’ve got to go, too. Just face away, it’s no big deal. Besides, people pee all the time.”

“You won’t tell, promise?”

“No one will know. On the positive side, at least you didn’t fart.”

“Shut up! The first time I go anywhere with a boy . . . here we are, peeing in a boat and talking about farting.”

Tyler finished, zipped up and dumped the bucket back over the side. “Done.”

Hours later, they became enveloped within a dense fog. The stars vanished; the shore lights turned hazy. Even the flashing beacon from the lighthouse disappeared. Cassie’s teeth chattered. It dawned on him that they were in the middle of Puget Sound’s shipping lanes. The skiff had no running lights, it wouldn’t show on radar.

He tried to calm his thoughts and fight the fear. “How about I tell you something?”

“Like what?”

He bear-hugged her. “Since I promised to never mention peeing in the boat, now it’s your turn. Promise¾never repeat this.”

“Okay . . . I promise.”

“Last night, when you asked me to sneak up to the Grange, our eyes caught. I know you saw what I’m talking about. I can’t describe why it felt different, but something changed. It sort of scared me. That’s why I didn’t go. I’m not sure what it means . . . but you never heard it because you promised.”

She leaned her head back against his shoulder. “You’re stupid crazy. Someday I’ll tell you what I think, but it’ll be around a warm campfire on the beach.”

More than ever, he resolved to keep them safe. Still, he couldn’t shake being afraid of what he couldn’t see. The worst part was knowing that somewhere on that ocean water, a ship could be coming. It seemed that an eternity had passed, drifting in the dark and fog. Then . . . the feeling of a change of pressure, combined with the hiss of a bow wave in the dark. A colossal container appeared in the dark, looming impossibly above them.

“Watch out!”

He pushed their one oar to fend off the onrushing bow of the ship; the skiff climbed the wave, then flipped. As they went over, a flood of foam smothered Cassie’s scream. Ty tumbled in the water, the thunder of engines and whine of props hammered in the turbulence. Which way to swim? He didn’t know, but the life jacket bobbed him to the surface. Wiping the stinging salt water from his eyes, he glimpsed the stern lights of the freighter fading in the fog.

“Cassie!”

He called again. A faint cry? He swam until he found her.

“I was alone. I thought I was going to die.” She wrapped both arms around his neck. “I don’t want to die.”

“We’re not going to die.”

“I’m . . . freezing.”

“We’ll find the skiff; it can’t sink. I’ll swim in circles.”

“Don’t leave me. I’ll swim with you.”

He began swimming without the foggiest notion of the skiff’s location. But he knew that they were drifting with the tide, and that the skiff was drifting too. To not get off course, he swam ten strokes, then turned at a right angle to swim another ten before turning again. When he’d completed the circle, he made it thirteen strokes to widen the search. Bit-by-bit, the ocean cold began insidiously penetrating. He thrashed like a madman, trying to generate body warmth. Still, his numb hands and legs grew clumsy, and then he struck something¾the rail of the skiff! It was filled with water.

“Cassie, I’ve found it!”

No answer. He swam back the way he’d come until he found her, her eyes closed, the arms barely moving. After he dragged her into the boat, he found that by some miracle, the bucket hadn’t been ripped from the bowline. He bailed for all he was worth until the skiff was empty.

Both bodies shook violently. Cassie’s teeth chattered. “I’m so-o-o cold.”

“Lie down on the center seat. I know this sounds crazy, but I’m going to lie on top to keep you warm. You’ll see. We’ll be okay . . . we’ll be okay.”

As they drifted through the night, hour after hour, he kept repeating this.

Finally, in dawn’s fog, something struck the boat. Tyler jerked awake, seeing at first, gray, hazy fog.

“Well, look what the tide drug in.” The gravelly voice sounded.

“Sir, where are we?”

“Bush Point, kid.”

“We need help.”

“Done. Hang on.”

 * * *

The next morning, the familiar mewing of the seagulls and joyous children’s laughter summoned Tyler from a deep, deep sleep. Last night events were a blur: the hospital ER, the memory of a needle jabbing . . . muffled conversations with a man in a white coat. He and Cassie were each back home.

He was home, unable to remember how¾only the delicious warmth of the comforter. He stretched lazily, thinking about that annoying safety stuff dad constantly harped about. Tyler secretly thought he’d just wanted spout off, to hear himself talk. Not anymore.

How he regarded Cassie had definitely changed. Childhood’s façade had been ripped away. He nurtured this but needed to make sense of it. There was no urgency, though. For as long as he could remember, his father had been telling him, “Hold your horses! Hold your horses! Don’t charge off to do something when you don’t know what you don’t know. Think about things; reflect each day on what you’ve learned.” His dad was right. He suddenly had this burning urge to tell him how right he’d been!

Mom knocked on the door. “Time to get up, sport. It’s almost noon.”

He rubbed his chin, feeling the bristly new growth. “Where’s Dad?”

She grew solemn. “He’s left for a doctor’s appointment. Something . . . something that came up.”

“But I wanted to talk to him . . . to let him know how right he’s been all these years.”

“Well, you’ll have to wait until he gets back. There’s some tests that need to be run. He’s got his annual physical today. He won’t be back until late.”

“When?”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Pierce Scranton 2026

Image Source: OctoFox Creative from Unsplash.com