Tides of Hope

Compressing her lips into a grim line, Kate swung the Lucy Sue hard to starboard, shifted into full throttle and headed straight for the bobbing orange speck. Disgust and annoyance vied for top billing on her emotional chart, with impatience and frustration not far behind. Whoever she found cavorting in the heaving gray swells was about to get an earful.

One, two, three, four, five, breathe. One, two, three, four, five, breathe. One, two, three, four, five, breathe.

Encased in his neoprene wet suit, Craig cut through the swells with powerful, even strokes, propelling himself forward with strong, steady kicks of his flippers, oblivious to the forty-two-degree water. After all the missions he’d swum in the Arctic, this was a bathtub. The chop was distracting, and the riptide had been a tad annoying, but neither had disrupted his bilateral breathing rhythm. After fifteen minutes of steady swimming, he wasn’t even winded.

As he sliced through the water, Craig counted each stroke as a victory over the intimidating marine conditions—and over his emotions. It had taken him two years to put so much as a toe in the ocean after the accident. He’d hated the sea with the same intensity he’d once loved it, his anger almost palpable. If it had been an enemy he could have gotten his hands around, he’d have choked the life out of it. Not the most Christian impulse, he knew, but that was how he’d felt.

Those potent feelings had prompted his request for a transfer from field duty to Washington. Hoping his fury and grief would ebb in a new environment, he’d planned to complete his twenty years of military service behind a desk, as far removed from his previous life as possible. And retirement wasn’t far in the future. Because he’d enlisted right out of college, he’d be able to wrap up his Coast Guard career as a relatively young man. Only three more years to go.

To his relief, the time and distance provided by three years of desk duty had eased his sorrow and mitigated his rage—to some degree. But much to his surprise, as his hate had begun to recede, his love of the sea had resurfaced. He’d fought it fiercely, overwhelmed by guilt, unable to understand how he could yearn to return to the very thing that had robbed his life of joy.

Until Paul Gleason had helped him make an uneasy peace with his conflicting feelings.

The admiral had come upon him one night last fall, seated in his windowless office in Washington behind tall stacks of reports awaiting his review. Craig had been trying all week to make some headway on them, but by Friday he’d done little more than riffle through a few.

Annoyed by his inability to focus, he’d been determined to stay all night if necessary to deal with the pile of official documents. No way had he wanted them waiting for him on Monday morning. But neither had he relished his self-imposed assignment. Paul’s unexpected appearance at his office door at the end of the day had been a welcome reprieve.

“Looks like you’re planning to burn the proverbial midnight oil.”

At the admiral’s greeting, Craig had summoned up a smile. “If that’s what it takes to empty my in basket.”

“What about Vicki?”

A wave of guilt had washed over him, and Craig had picked up a stack of papers on his desk and tapped them into a neat, precise pile. His personal life might be a mess, but at least he could keep his desk tidy. “The nanny will put her to bed.”

He’d waited for Paul to comment, to add another layer of guilt to the load he already carried over his lackluster approach to fatherhood. And he deserved it, Craig had acknowledged. For all his heroic work on the job, he was no hero when it came to raising his daughter. That, too, had begun to eat at him.

To his relief, Paul had let the subject pass. Instead, the admiral had surveyed the stack of reports and given a low whistle, arching his trademark shaggy white eyebrows. “You could be here till morning.”

“Tell me about it. How have you managed to deal with this kind of stuff day after day for all these years? I’m not even convinced it’s written in English.” In public, he and the admiral—his mentor since their days at Air Station Kodiak well over a decade ago—observed military protocol. Off duty, their relationship had evolved into a comfortable friendship.

A rueful chuckle had rumbled in the older man’s chest. Dropping into the chair across from Craig’s desk, he’d run his hand over his close-cropped white hair. “I’m afraid it comes with the rank. But I must confess there are days I wish I was back in Kodiak. Once the sea grabs hold of you, she never lets go.”

Casting a shrewd eye at the younger officer, the admiral had leaned back in his chair. “By the way…I have some news. I’m retiring the first of the year. Mag and I are going to take up full-time residence in our little cottage in Maine and go sailing every chance we get.”

The announcement shouldn’t have surprised Craig. After thirty-five years of military service, Paul deserved his retirement. Yet the news had left him with mixed feelings.

“I’m happy for you, Paul. And more than a little envious.”

“You’re too young to retire.” Paul had folded his hands over his stomach, its girth a bit wider since their Kodiak days. “Or were you referring to my return to the sea?”

Not much got past the admiral, Craig had acknowledged. Picking up a pen, he’d tapped it against his palm as he’d weighed his response. “There are days lately when this—” he’d swept his hand around the office “—gets on my nerves and I think about the sea. But I asked for this transfer. I shouldn’t complain.”

“You needed an escape then. Maybe you don’t anymore.” Paul had steepled his fingers and given Craig a steady look. “You know, I’ll be here through December. If a request for a transfer came through, I’d be inclined to give it a favorable review.”

Shaking his head, Craig had raked his fingers through his hair. “I shouldn’t even consider it.”

“Why not?”

“After what happened…how could I want to be around the sea?”

The hint of a smile had touched the admiral’s lips. “Love is a strange thing, Craig. Whether for a woman or for the sea. You don’t like everything about her all the time. Sometimes she does things that infuriate you. There are days you’re tempted to walk away. But you never stop loving her. Not if it’s real. That’s how love works.”

Several moments of silence had ticked by while Craig considered the admiral’s comment. “I don’t know, Paul.”

The man had stood and rested a hand on the tall stack of reports. “Well, I do. You don’t belong behind this desk. You never did. You’ve done a great job here, but this isn’t where you should finish your career. Think about it. A change like that could be good for you—and Vicki. She’s only four, Craig. She needs you.”

In the end, after weeks of soul searching, Craig had come to the same conclusion. Although he hadn’t understood his jumbled feelings about the sea, he’d asked for a transfer back to the field. To a station on the other side of the country from Hawaii, hoping a new setting would give him a fresh start with his life—and with his daughter. The opening on Nantucket had fit the bill.

An icy smack in the face from an unruly wave brought Craig abruptly back to the present. Caught unaware, he sucked in a mouthful of water. Coughed. Lost his rhythm.

Anger surged through him, and he swam with renewed energy, arms slashing through the water, attacking the swells. He’d let the sea surprise him, score a point. Bad mistake. One he’d vowed never to let happen again. His last mistake had cost him too—

“Hey! Hey, you!”

At the shouted summons, Craig broke his rhythm again, this time on purpose. Riding the swells, he lifted his head and checked for the source.

The name of the boat rocking on the waves a few yards away clicked into focus first. Lucy Sue.

Meaning the human hurricane couldn’t be far behind.

Taking a deep breath, Craig looked higher. Sure enough, the voice belonged to none other than Katherine MacDonald. And she was in a snit once again, judging by her ruddy color and tense posture as she glared down at him, her wind-tossed red hair whipping about her face.

The full blast of her fury was coming. He knew that. He’d already had a sample of her temper, and the signs were all there. But instead of using the lull before the storm to brace himself, he found his thoughts wandering to Grace O’Malley, the legendary Irish pirate queen. Somehow he had a feeling she’d looked a lot like Katherine MacDonald.

“…recreational swimming area!”

The tail end of her comment interrupted his musings. “What?”

“I said, are you crazy? This is not a recreational swimming area!” She had to yell to be heard above the hum of the engine and the waves slapping against the side of the boat.

“I’m fine,” he called back.

“You can’t be fine! The water’s freezing! And there’s a bad riptide here. You need to get back to shore!” She flicked her hand toward the beach, as if shooing a recalcitrant puppy back from the edge of a busy street.

It was obvious she didn’t recognize him. But why should she? His wet suit, swim cap and goggles left very few identifying features exposed.

As he bobbed on the swells, he considered his options. The path of least resistance would be to remain anonymous, acquiesce and retreat to the beach. That would be the smart thing to do. He’d been about ready to head toward shore anyway.

Instead, prompted by some impulse he couldn’t identify, he lifted his goggles and settled them on top of the orange swim cap. “I can handle this sea, Ms. MacDonald.”

Her reaction as his identity became apparent was reward enough for his rash action. Seeing Katherine MacDonald shocked speechless was, he suspected, a rare treat.

Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

“I don’t believe this! You, of all people, should know better than to swim in seas like this! Alone, no less! And you cited me for a safety violation?”

He’d known she’d come back with a zinger. She hadn’t disappointed him.