by Sarah Carolan
TW: Drowning
The peninsula claimed over two hundred ships in as many years. Victims would run afoul on hidden shoals or be driven off course by unpredictable gales. Others overestimated their maneuverability within the narrow, limestone-filled straits. But only one shipwreck, Griffin Lyons, captured Kat’s attention, and she blamed his demise on something else entirely.
“Did a sea monster sink it, Captain?” The little girl twirled around to address Kat. One hand rested on the boat’s edge while the other clasped the plastic flip seat. Her shiny blonde hair skipped glints of summer.
“Not a sea monster, no. This isn’t the sea.” Exhaustion soured Kat’s tone. She had meant to cancel the tour with the mother and daughter, but their destination persuaded her otherwise. Not to mention, Kat stood in no position to decline a source of income. “It was an accident. It transported cargo,” she added.
“What did Griffin Lyons carry?”
“Twenty thousand bushels of wheat.”
The girl peered into the jellied depths. Shades of blue and green danced in the current, never roving higher than the top of the hull.
Kat’s first excursion to the shipwreck had been around the girls’ age and was also devised by a parent. Griffin Lyons, she remembered her father saying, held secrets, but she would need to accompany him to understand. Thinking back, she could not believe his bait had worked, but then, he was right. That day she reluctantly set aside her magazine and joined her father. It made no difference that his invitation reeked of ulterior motives, for her fascination soon eclipsed a need for any pretext. He wished to spend more time on his boat, and she took to the wreck like a breeze greeting empty sails. She filled the sunken ship with renewed purpose—and in return, Griffin Lyons instilled a love of the mercurial Lake Michigan. Kat happily channeled this guidance into a career, and for a time, the modest earnings of a tour boat operator suited her well.
A gull cried as Kat joined the mother and daughter in peering overboard. From the surface, Griffin Lyons’s massive timbers stretched across the bottom of the lake like a giant, broken ladder. She eyed the diamond-shaped fish that darted from hiding holes and roamed the wreck’s cabin roof. Remnants of the foremast, rudder, and transom splintered the sand under a furry green membrane. The fibers swayed as if wagging a finger in warning. But Kat would never dream of investigating the wreck. Too invasive, she had decided long ago.
“What year did it sink?” the girl’s mother asked.
“1878,” Kat replied.
“Did people die?” The girl rose to peer at the shipwreck more closely.
“All were able to escape before the ship sank.” Kat saw the girl deflate, and she hastily continued. “The wayward Kate Gillett was a schooner, a type of ship, that struck Griffin Lyons early one morning. It drove straight into the side hull. The captain of Kate kept the ships interlocked, similar to keeping a knife within a wound to prevent a person from bleeding out. This decision allowed the crew of Griffin Lyons to scramble aboard safely. Only then did the ships part ways, and both crews watched Griffin Lyons sink bow first some one hundred feet below.”
The girl looked at her mother with a wide-eyed expression.
“That far?” the mother said dubiously. “It looks like I could reach right down and touch it.”
“The water acts like a magnifying glass,” Kat answered. “Objects appear larger and closer. But you would need proper diving equipment to view the wreck.” Another expensive reason why Kat chose to stay above water.
The mother mused the explanation. “But there’s so much open space out here. How on earth could a crew not see a ship? Colliding out here would have to be intentional or incredibly bad luck.”
“Luck, destiny, folly, it’s all the same,” Kat replied. Her own luck had expired upon purchasing her boat, a twenty-eight-footer found at a bargain in Sheboygan. A bit of time, money, and a new name, Gillett, brought the vessel to seaworthiness. She had paid off the boat, but the loan to establish her tour boat business remained unpaid.
The mother straightened and turned to her daughter. “I think it’s time for us to return to the car—unless you don’t want to go to Dairy Queen?”
Kat watched the girl nod with an exaggerated bob to her head. She instructed the pair to sit as she raised the anchor and started the engine. The boat settled on a plane, gliding across the glassy water amidst a rhythm of whiffs. They continued on this path until the coast guard station filtered into view.
Kat thought again of Griffin Lyons. She would have always chosen him rather than be distracted with ice cream, amusement parks, or anything a child of that age might typically desire. Captains presented early, she told herself.
At the bay, Kat cut the boat’s speed, bumping the engine until they moored at the dock. The little girl leaned close to inform Kat that she would like to see the shipwreck next summer. Kat raised her eyebrows in amusement and freed the child from her life vest. She waved as the mother and daughter dawdled to their car and drove away.
The height of tourist season always took a toll on Kat’s body: up early and home late. But she needed this period of summer. By scheduling as many tours as possible, she could coast for the remainder of the year. And, if accomplished early enough, she might be able to enjoy her sleepy little town without the buzz of expensive-looking traffic and restaurants too packed to hold a conversation. But as it stood, she remained far from this reprieve.
The sun scorched Kat’s forehead as she strolled along the marina. The smell of aquatic detritus and smoldering barbecue coals filled her nostrils, melding with the cries of birds. Heat wobbled from the sidewalks, alleviated by an occasional breeze. Kat turned away from the water, following a graveled path that cut through a park and behind an outdoor patio brimming with families. She continued under the shady trail to a stout building at the edge of town. Its small, dark windows did well to deter tourists.
Kat eased into one of the plump stools at the counter. She curled a napkin free to spit out her bland gum, crumpling the waste away.
“How many more tours today, Kat?” asked a waitress in a blue and white apron. She flicked a coaster on the counter and filled a coffee cup.
“Thanks, Meg,” Kat answered, pulling the mug closer. “Two more for the afternoon and one early tomorrow morning—a fishing trip with a father and his boys.”
“You need a break,” Meg replied. She avoided Kat’s eye while she worked a hand inside her apron pocket. After a moment of hesitation, she procured a pink envelope. “Someone left this for you.”
Kat stretched out her hand and crumpled the letter, dropping it next to the used gum. “Why are you passing along repossession notices to your friend and favorite regular?” Exhaustion zapped the humor from her voice. She waved her hand to dismiss Meg’s fumbling reply. “It’s fine, it’s fine. You know I’d pay them if I had the money. They’ll just have to wait.”
“Be careful,” Meg said, busying herself with empty glasses. “Are you having trouble filling your schedule?”
“Not this time, but it’s—it’s tricky. I can’t change my rates mid-season. I’ll have to take every tour I can get.”
“In that case, you should talk to the man sitting over there, near the window.” Meg angled her head towards a gaunt man in a black t-shirt. “He was asking about someone taking him out on the lake.”
“For a tour or fishing?”
Meg shrugged.
Kat thanked her and twirled on the stool to examine the man. He stooped over the table, scribbling into a small,red notebook. Occasionally he would glance away to observe a boat gliding through the marina.
Kat gulped her coffee and strolled to the man’s table. “I hear you’re hoping to get out on the lake,” she said to his bowed head.
The man jumped and spun around. “Yes,” he answered. “And you are?”
“Kat. I also go by Captain. I own the tour boat, Gillett.”
“That’s an interesting name. Please, join me.” He gestured to an empty chair and waited for Kat to sit before continuing. “My name is Lyle. Would you be able to take me out tomorrow?”
“What would you like to do, Lyle? Fishing? Tour of the caves?”
Lyle shook his head. “It’s a bit different.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a shipwreck, in a way.”
“Griffin Lyons? Frank O’Connor? Christina Nilsson?”
“None that you know. It hasn’t been mapped before.”
“It hasn’t been mapped before?” Kat reclined and narrowed her eyes. “Are you pulling my leg?”
“I know where it is roughly, but not its exact coordinates.”
“What makes you believe there’s an undiscovered wreck out here? There are extensive records of the area. Plus, I’ve lived here all my life and never heard of this mysterious wreck.”
“I know,” Lyle replied.
Kat swept her eyes over the man. He did not seem young, nor did he appear old. He wore his hair parted to the side, and she caught a glimpse of a porcelain-looking chain around his neck. From his composure, she could not detect any tell—no twitch of his mouth or eyes—that might suggest a joke. Instead, he went rigid, perhaps bracing for her to jump from the table and mock his trust in such a tale.
“I’ll pay you anything you’d like,” he added.
“Anything?”
“So long as you can take me tomorrow and no later. It’s a bit of a journey out. How would $2,500 sound?”
Kat tongued at her back molars as she mulled the offer. The sum could appease the lenders, though she would have little left for savings, jeopardizing winter boat storage. But with a bit more money, she would not have to stack her schedule for the remainder of the summer. The relief from that mental weight alone felt worth the trouble of Lyle’s unquestionably wild goose chase.
“$3,500, and you’ve got a deal,” Kat said. She held out her hand, and they shook agreement. His palm felt cold and bony in her grip. “Tomorrow at noon, go to dock 4D, passcode 252. I should be finished by then.”
Lyle scribbled into his red notebook as clouds gathered outside. Kat nodded as he rose from the table. She noted his height, taller than she would have guessed from sitting. He had the lean muscles of a swimmer. As he exited the dim restaurant, Kat eased as if a knot unfurled in her back. For the first time in years, she looked forward to a night’s sleep.
“I don’t think you should take him.” Meg slapped a wet rag onto the table.
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd? And he’s alone. You shouldn’t be out on the water with him, especially if you don’t know where you’re going.”
“I appreciate the concern, but he’s hired me for my boat. If he doesn’t know how to pilot a boat, he’ll be shit out of luck if anything happens to me.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t have a license.” Meg bit her bottom lip and glanced out the small window.
“He needs me,” Kat replied. “And I need him too—or his money, at least.”
“Have him pay you first. Please. I can’t imagine why he’d agree to that price.”
“He values my expertise and company,” Kat answered. She hoped Meg’s rationality would not spoil her night’s rest. “We’ll see if he even shows up tomorrow.”
#
The following day, Kat played photographer on the father and sons’ fishing trip. One large trout and two perch. The smaller boy hooked the day’s largest catch, which nearly pulled him overboard. Kat and the boy’s father raced to his aid and coached him into reeling in the mighty sheepshead. But the boy found the description of the fish’s taste disappointing, and he tossed the animal back into the water, waving goodbye.
Lyle arrived at noon on the dot, a leather duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He stepped aside for the family but hesitated before climbing aboard. It pleased Kat to hear him ask if he should remove his shoes, and she assured him they could remain on.
“Would you like a life vest? One is located under your seat,” Kat said. “I have an extinguisher under there, another in the forward seating, and a life ring located here.” She pointed to the various locations as Lyle secured his things. “Now, where to?”
“Lakeside. At the coast guard, head east for sixty nautical miles,” Lyle replied.
“Chippewa Basin?”
“Very good. Yes, the deepest part of the lake.”
Kat dropped her hand from the throttle and stared at him impatiently. “How are you planning on finding a wreck in water hundreds of feet deep? My reader doesn’t even measure that far.”
Lyle tapped his temple. “Don’t worry about it. Get me to the area, and I’ll show you.”
“Suit yourself.”
Kat angled the motor and reversed from the dock. Gillett undulated and grumbled through the channel. Once enough distance separated the boat from the breakwater, Kat added speed. She trimmed the vessel, preventing it from nicking the water, until her boat slid into an equilibrium. Spray flecked their faces as the heat from town left their bodies. The coast receded into a thin line on the horizon as flat water stretched from all sides like a field of wild indigo. They stayed on this course for several hours.
Eventually, Kat checked her dashboard and idled the engine.
“Well?” she asked. “This is the area.”
“We’re nearly there,” Lyle replied. He glanced at the sun and then over the lip of the boat. “South,” he said, pointing in this direction. “I’ll say when to stop.”
Kat bit her tongue and thought of her father. He knew how to remain silent when a situation benefited him. She needed only to accommodate Lyle’s wild ideas for the next few hours. To instigate anything when the key to her troubles lay tucked inside a wallet was foolish. She swung the wheel and checked her instruments.
Lyle declared their arrival a short while later. Kat cut the engine and turned to face him expectantly. She watched him remove a purple snorkeling mask from his duffle bag and untie his shoes.
“This could take some time,” he said. “Feel free to fish while you’re waiting.”
Kat examined the wet suit he revealed from under his clothes. “I can’t let you go without some sort of floatation.” She strode to one of the benches and prodded at its contents, removing a bright green pool noodle. “I keep these around for the kids,” she said, handing the item to Lyle. “You never know. It’s always good to have something nearby.”
Lyle accepted the toy by looping it behind his back. He plodded to the transom, and she watched him slip into the water with barely a splash. He popped to the surface, adjusted his mask, and then placed his head into the water, kicking the boat’s length.
Kat eyed the fishing rod and tackle box. Several hours of daylight remained, and she sensed that Lyle would require all this time for his search. She retrieved the rod and checked the lure, settling into the easy motions of casting and reeling. After a time, Kat switched strategies, opting for a baited hook and bobbin. She placed the rod into a stainless steel holder.
Lyle continued kicking, roaming back and forth as if gleaning a field of produce. His head dipped below the water, and his feet alternated, searching for who-knows-what.
Kat moved to a bench. Her leg grazed the leather duffle, and it slunk to the deck with a soft thud. She peered at its disturbed contents, her eyes lingering on the red notebook. With a quick peep over her shoulder, she righted the bag and took the book into her lap. She told herself that she had every right to investigate. A captain should know the coordinates. She turned to the first page and studied a hand-drawn topographic or bathymetric lake map. The next page offered a closer view, the same map but of the basin itself. A small red ‘x’ presumably indicated the location of what Lyle sought. The next page gave her pause.
A time-stained newspaper clipping from the Chicago Tribune had been pasted into the notebook. The date read June 25th, 1953, titled “Gigantic Wave Claims 8 Lives.” “Cause attributed to sudden shifts in barometric pressure and wind,” the article continued. Kat nodded, murmuring the word seiche under her breath.
“It was thought to be a meteotsunami, not a seiche. Though, most would probably call it a rogue wave.”
Kat startled and doubled over the notebook.
“Don’t worry,” Lyle said. He balanced his elbows on the boat’s edge, his legs barely visible from under the water. “I don’t blame you for snooping.”
Kat turned away to wince. “What, um, what’s the difference?”
“Time. And size. Though, I suppose it’s difficult to say what happened.”
“Is it? What do you think happened?”
Lyle removed the snorkeling mask to prod at his eyes and readjust the pool noodle. Kat considered offering him sunscreen, but he cleared his throat. “Some hypothesize that sea monsters were used as a way for sailors to excuse their ship sinking from these massive waves. Have you heard of this? The thought was that those who survived the sinking ship would not garner sympathy from other sailors—for who could believe a crew of experienced seamen couldn’t handle one wave? How could one wave on a clear day cause so much destruction? But a sea monster—now there’s a tale. A sea monster would provide the needed attention and compassion.”
Kat gaped at this explanation. “You think a monster caused that wave?”
“No, not then,” Lyle answered, chuckling. “But it’s curious—the tales sailors tell one another. I’m sure those who said a sea monster sank their boat eventually came to believe that story, even if they did see a wave.”
Kat peered at the water. Afternoon light glistened across the waves, flush as far as the eye could see. Her throat narrowed as Meg’s concerns floated to her mind, growing like tinnitus. She realized how very alone she was with this man. And how stupid she was for not demanding his payment upfront.
“Why is Griffin Lyons your favorite shipwreck?” Lyle asked.
“How did you know that?” Kat attempted to sneak the red notebook into the duffle bag.
“Context clues,” Lyle said. “The name of your boat, for instance.”
“Ah.” Kat padded her knees and rose to her feet. “My father would take me out to Griffin Lyons. The wreck wasn’t far from where we lived, so he became somewhat of an obsession.”
“He? I’d venture it’s a bit more than an obsession.”
Kat moved to the tackle box and sorted the lures. Her hands begged to busy themselves, and Lyle did not notice how her fingers clattered the metal pieces. “What happens if you’re unable to find what you’re looking for today?” she asked.
“That won’t happen. You’ve been perfect.” Lyle slipped the snorkeling mask over his eyes as Kat attempted to flatten her expression. “I assure you, the bills will stop if you continue listening to me.” He ducked under the water and resumed the rhythmic kicks of his search.
Kat told herself that the money would make all the unease worth it. He was a strange, adventurer type, caught up in some childhood fantasy. She should be more accustomed to that thinking, or at least less judgmental. He had not threatened her or demanded any more than their original bargain. It did fluster her that he knew about the debt, but he must have also picked this up from context clues. Or perhaps Meg had told him before their conversation.
Kat closed her eyes and thought of the previous night’s rest. If that sort of peace indicated what was to come, she could endure far more. She would not squander this opportunity when her life stood on the precipice of financial freedom.
A flash blinked from Kat’s peripheral as the orange and white bobbin dipped under the water. She scanned the surface for Lyle, but he had dived underwater. She removed the rod from the holder as something tugged on the line, weighty but not combative. She could not imagine what sort of debris an area with seemingly no bottom might hook.
The rod tip dipped as she reeled faster, but the line felt fluid and not in danger of snapping free. Her catch pulled at the surface, small and oddly shaped. With a final yank, she claimed the thing, propelling it into the air. The object clattered to the deck and dragged her stomach down with it.
A purple snorkeling mask.
Kat’s back tightened as if an icy finger drew up her spine. The absence of Lyle’s kicking converged around her. She scoured the water for any hint of movement, yelling Lyle’s name as if that were enough to summon him. Every second probed at her fears, and then an object did manifest. Foggy at first, like a wagging finger, the green pool noodle surged from the depths.
Kat watched the floatation laze gently in the waves. She covered her mouth as an acrid taste filled her throat. She darted to the radio, flipping switches. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Gillett. Our position is 44 degrees, 34 minutes north, over 86 degrees, 51 minutes west. Man overboard.” She pressed the receiver against her lips and swallowed. The static droned as if minutes slowed to hours. She repeated the alert thrice without success and searched for a transmission to interrupt, but no one answered.
Kat staggered to the boat’s edge and hurled the life ring into the water with all her hope. She pounded her temples, rehashing every safety procedure, but this had never happened before. Granted, she had never been this far into the lake, but her competency as a captain stretched decades. The lake provided a livelihood as much as a sense of comfort. But now, Kat harbored the sick thought that experience meant nothing. Perhaps it had always been luck that got her this far. And now she carried the weight of a seasoned captain. Blame hung from her shoulders like a wet blanket, sopping and unwieldy, as Meg’s warning crumpled her thoughts.
The cabin remained silent as Kat returned to the radio. Flat blue water and the open sky striped the windows in all directions. She reached for the receiver but froze before raising it to her mouth again. The pixelated screen of the boat’s depth finder activated. The machine had stalled at 300 feet for much of the journey. It did not read deeper. But now it flicked to the 200s and continued to count down.
“Impossible,” she whispered, toggling the power switch.
The reading continued to decrease, counting down from the high 100s. Kat scratched her brow and moved to examine the water. A green tinge had replaced the solid navy. She gripped the rail as a vibration emanated, so low that it reverberated through her arms and chest before reaching her ears. She stared, transfixed by the appearance of blurry pale shapes. A strange current organized the water’s surface into a smooth, geometric pattern. She watched as long, cylindrical forms roved hypnotizingly under the water, solidifying and linking into what appeared like the delicate bones of two hands. She rubbed her eyes, damning the vision as a manifestation of her despair, yet the spindly fingers found clarity. Her stomach lurched as the forms expanded, growing longer than the length of the boat. The surface bubbled in frenzied anticipation as if the hands spread wide, reaching for her.
Kat screamed and fled to the wheel. She flung the throttle, jolting the boat forward amidst the crash of the tackle box and fishing rod. The dashboard glowed as darkness swept over the cabin. She focused on the horizon, a clear line under a cloudless blue sky. Yet the shadow continued advancing across the cabin and over the bow.
As the depth finder read from 10, Kat peered over her shoulder. But she no longer saw the bony hands or strange current, nor even the white orb of the sun, only a mountain of water. A giant wave grew from the lake, foaming like a rabid dog before spilling over.
The deck swept from under Kat’s feet. Water pummeled the cabin and pitched her into equipment. Metal edges and shards of glass stung her skin as she tumbled mindlessly. Sounds receded, and pressure constricted her movements. She thrashed her limbs, batting away wreckage as she fumbled for a window or the doorway, but her body slowed. There was no up or down. She drifted within a vacuum while Gillett’s innards burst apart. She struggled, flailing her arms and legs in a last bid for survival. But water clogged her lungs, and the little vision she held worsened with a shot of pain to her temple. She fixed her gaze on a glittering white shape, the surface, but she had no energy to swim. She watched as pieces of her life disappeared into black and her heart sank with them.
Death neared as Griffin Lyons emerged from the haze, his bow parting the murky water as if it were thick fog. But he appeared different from Kat’s memory, whole and upside down. His keel cut through the surface as if he were meant to be oriented this way. Everything was lost now, she conceded. She must be dead—for how else could she explain the approaching vessel?
Kat accepted the familiar face at Griffin Lyons’ helm. A man. His smile spread, but she did not feel its warmth. She recognized his necklace and hair, which birled about his head like a black flame. His white teeth flashed when he caught her eye. Lyle. But Lyle was gone too, drowned. She watched as he pointed a long, hooked finger at her. His mouth moved. She heard no sound, but he slowly formed the words Until next time, Kate Gillett.
#
Warbled voices surrounded Kat. With bleary eyes, she stared into the twilight. The air was cold and everything beyond the immediate vicinity, blue. The ache at her temple flared as she coughed and shivered under a metallic blanket. She attempted to speak but only managed a raspy grunt. Nothing came easy, and nothing made sense. Was this death? Pain and demonic figures wove around her, pressing close and separating like a school of fish.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” someone said.
Kat blinked at the wavering figure. A flag fluttered above its head. They were not red demons, she saw with percolating awareness, but people wearing jackets.
“It’s okay. You’re with the Coast Guard.” Another voice spoke. “Do you know what happened?”
Kat lapped at her mouth and spoke the only word that came to mind. “Monster.”
END
I Killed a Horse
by Jack Dunnett
Sarah Carolan is a writer and artist from Chicago, Illinois. As a child, she would spend her summers in rural Wisconsin, which influenced her love of nature. Sarah enjoys reading and writing stories with darker themes. Previous publications include The Raven Review.
Jack Dunnett is a mixed media painter who grew up in the Highlands of Scotland. He obtained his Bachelor of Arts in Painting from Gray’s School of Art in 2017. He currently lives and works in Glasgow.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 