Page 1 of The Mer-Mate
The Search
When in doubt,trust the surfers.
I know. It’s not scientific. The weather channel has charts and calculations and a bunch of algorithms I couldn’t decipher if my life depended on it.
I'm a marine biologist; not a meteorologist. I don’t know shit about predicting the weather.
The surfers, though. They’reinthe water. They feel its moods. If they listen, the ocean will let them ride her swells, and the rest of the world will fall away, and it's just them and a moment with a wave no one will ever ride again.
And in that moment, freedom.
Their lives depend on them respecting the ocean. On understanding it. Just like mine does.
As if it wasn’t already risky enough being out on the water.
Storm warnings have been blasting out over every media type imaginable for days. The season has barely started and already swells have been clocked at over thirty feet.
Darwin’s Daughter, my research vessel, can handle that. What she can’t handle are the fifty footers rumoured to be coming.
Anyone heading out onto the water in those conditions would have to be insane.
Just me and the surfers.
But the wildest storms bring the most life-changing rides.
This morning, I laid awake for hours before sunrise, an eerie silence pressing down on me. I stared out the window, past the cedar boughs waving outside my trailer, eyes fastened on the horizon as I chewed dry toast. Reminding myself I’m not scheduled to check my lines for three days, that I should wait, the wordswhen in doubt, trust the surfersplaying on an endless loop in my brain.
I’m a scientist, but I believe in hunches.
The full force of the storm hadn’t hit when I launched hours ago. It took me long enough to notice when it finally did. I was so deep in my charts that I didn’t see the black clouds cover the midday sun. Didn't feel the temperature drop. I didn’t look up until the deck was drenched.
Guess I’m just used to being wet.
My fingers are numb as I wind the crank. The waves rendered my automatic winch useless hours ago. If I engage it now, it’ll snap, and I could lose months of work.
What the ocean claims out here is lost forever. Usually.
Except me.
Everyone said it was a miracle I didn’t drown when I went overboard all those years ago. I nevertold anyone what I saw beneath the waves that day. Who would believe me? Half the time, I don’t believe myself.
Someone—or something—saved me.
I shield my eyes from the gale, fighting the chill seeping into my bones. I’ve waited thirty years for this data. Lost friendships in pursuit of it. Given up postings and grants that would have taken me away from British Columbia’s Wild Coast.
My ex-husband was convinced I was hiding an affair. No matter how many times I told him there wasn’t another man, he knew I was keeping something from him.
I didn’t bother fighting for my marriage. It took too much time away from the ocean.
So much data I’ve collected but never published. No one would take me seriously if it was made public. The only way I’ve managed to keep my professional reputation intact is by hiding the true purpose of my research. Not until I was sure.
My lines, currently thirty nautical miles offshore, just past the continental shelf and hanging almost a thousand metres down, might finally,finally, give me answers. Fifty-footers be damned.
Everything has brought me to this point. I can’t lose it today. Not when I’m so close.
I need to prove myself wrong.
Because being right would be unfathomable.
