be more. She looked scared.
“Kyle?”
She seemed to shake herself mentally. “How big do you think that was?”
He considered. “3.5 or maybe a bit more. Stronger than the one I felt the other day.”
“A 3.5 shouldn’t cause that much lake turbulence.”
“Underwater landslides,” he suggested. “Tsunami effect.” The creeping cold started him shaking. “We’ve gotta move.” He put a hand on the boat’s bow.
“Not before we do what we came for.” She nodded toward the seismograph in its metal case, sitting in the boat bottom in eight inches of water. “Good thing it’s all-weather.”
“No,” Wyatt decided. “If we take the time to dig a proper hole, we’ll both have hypothermia.”
“I hate to have come all this way for nothing.” Kyle was shivering and her lips and fingernails had gone from healthy pink to blue.
“Too bad.” The shaking had hold of Wyatt in earnest as he took her arm and urged her toward the dinghy. He wanted to get her … and him, someplace warm.
She grabbed the seismograph and he thought she still meant to deploy it. Fortunately, she set it on the ground a little ways off and helped him grab the boat and tip it up on its side. Water poured onto the sand.
He climbed in and waited for her to retrieve the instrument and shove the bow off. A wave broke over the stern and his boots were once more in the water.
“Here goes nothing.” He pulled the rope starter and willed the engine to turn over without a hitch. Park Service maintenance tended to be variable.
On the first try, the rope dragged at his hand. He pulled again, trying to steady his grip. The fifty yards to the cruiser would not be a tough swim in a warm pool.
The afternoon sun shone mockingly.
On the third try, the motor sputtered and died.
The chop of the lake had not subsided with the earth’s shaking. It continued to roil the way water sloshes in a bowl long after the hand that shook it is withdrawn.
Four tries, five. Wyatt closed his eyes and tried to forget the cold.
The next pull on the rope starter rewarded him with a cloud of blue exhaust.
As he guided the dinghy toward the cruiser, each cresting wave smacked the bow. Kyle hunkered down and pulled up the hood of her parka, while in order to steer he was forced to take each biting splash square in the face.
When they reached the larger boat, Kyle gathered the painter and leaped aboard.
Once he was on the cruiser, Wyatt started the main engine. In the short time they’d been gone, the motor had cooled and the heater’s flow felt like air conditioning.
“We’ve got to get out of these wet things.” Kyle stripped off her parka, opened a bench locker, and looked inside. “Blankets?”
“Aft.”
Wyatt heard the rustle of her taking off her clothes and dumping them in a sopping heap on the metal deck. They’d been on a lot of fieldtrips together, coed treks to the Moenkopi Desert where there were no bushes and a potty stop consisted of boys on one side of the bus and girls on the other. He and Kyle had even shared a tent, waking to a frosty Colorado morning and slithering into jeans inside their separate sleeping bags.
He checked the heater and found the flow warming.
Kyle came up beside Wyatt with a faded red blanket wrapped sarong fashion and tucked beneath her armpits. Another draped her shoulders like a serape. She’d taken apart her fraying braid; strands of wet hair left darker spots where they dripped onto the wool.
He’d seen the sprinkling of freckles that adorned her bare chest before, too. Fieldtrip skinny dipping in motel hot tubs had more than once resulted in the rowdy students being thrown out by irate proprietors, or passively forced by the less assertive who simply turned off the gas. Come to think, Kyle had been the only one who always wore a swimsuit, a long, slender black tank.
Then how come seeing her half-dressed today set up a thudding in his pulse?
“You go and change,” she ordered. Her strong fingers
“Kyle?”
She seemed to shake herself mentally. “How big do you think that was?”
He considered. “3.5 or maybe a bit more. Stronger than the one I felt the other day.”
“A 3.5 shouldn’t cause that much lake turbulence.”
“Underwater landslides,” he suggested. “Tsunami effect.” The creeping cold started him shaking. “We’ve gotta move.” He put a hand on the boat’s bow.
“Not before we do what we came for.” She nodded toward the seismograph in its metal case, sitting in the boat bottom in eight inches of water. “Good thing it’s all-weather.”
“No,” Wyatt decided. “If we take the time to dig a proper hole, we’ll both have hypothermia.”
“I hate to have come all this way for nothing.” Kyle was shivering and her lips and fingernails had gone from healthy pink to blue.
“Too bad.” The shaking had hold of Wyatt in earnest as he took her arm and urged her toward the dinghy. He wanted to get her … and him, someplace warm.
She grabbed the seismograph and he thought she still meant to deploy it. Fortunately, she set it on the ground a little ways off and helped him grab the boat and tip it up on its side. Water poured onto the sand.
He climbed in and waited for her to retrieve the instrument and shove the bow off. A wave broke over the stern and his boots were once more in the water.
“Here goes nothing.” He pulled the rope starter and willed the engine to turn over without a hitch. Park Service maintenance tended to be variable.
On the first try, the rope dragged at his hand. He pulled again, trying to steady his grip. The fifty yards to the cruiser would not be a tough swim in a warm pool.
The afternoon sun shone mockingly.
On the third try, the motor sputtered and died.
The chop of the lake had not subsided with the earth’s shaking. It continued to roil the way water sloshes in a bowl long after the hand that shook it is withdrawn.
Four tries, five. Wyatt closed his eyes and tried to forget the cold.
The next pull on the rope starter rewarded him with a cloud of blue exhaust.
As he guided the dinghy toward the cruiser, each cresting wave smacked the bow. Kyle hunkered down and pulled up the hood of her parka, while in order to steer he was forced to take each biting splash square in the face.
When they reached the larger boat, Kyle gathered the painter and leaped aboard.
Once he was on the cruiser, Wyatt started the main engine. In the short time they’d been gone, the motor had cooled and the heater’s flow felt like air conditioning.
“We’ve got to get out of these wet things.” Kyle stripped off her parka, opened a bench locker, and looked inside. “Blankets?”
“Aft.”
Wyatt heard the rustle of her taking off her clothes and dumping them in a sopping heap on the metal deck. They’d been on a lot of fieldtrips together, coed treks to the Moenkopi Desert where there were no bushes and a potty stop consisted of boys on one side of the bus and girls on the other. He and Kyle had even shared a tent, waking to a frosty Colorado morning and slithering into jeans inside their separate sleeping bags.
He checked the heater and found the flow warming.
Kyle came up beside Wyatt with a faded red blanket wrapped sarong fashion and tucked beneath her armpits. Another draped her shoulders like a serape. She’d taken apart her fraying braid; strands of wet hair left darker spots where they dripped onto the wool.
He’d seen the sprinkling of freckles that adorned her bare chest before, too. Fieldtrip skinny dipping in motel hot tubs had more than once resulted in the rowdy students being thrown out by irate proprietors, or passively forced by the less assertive who simply turned off the gas. Come to think, Kyle had been the only one who always wore a swimsuit, a long, slender black tank.
Then how come seeing her half-dressed today set up a thudding in his pulse?
“You go and change,” she ordered. Her strong fingers
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