Reasonable. Logical. The kind of explanation that makes perfect sense until it doesn't.
"Well, now you've confirmed I'm fine, so you can continue your run." I turn back to my tide pool, heart rate elevated and hands not quite steady as I pick up my pen.
Silence stretches for a long moment. Then his voice comes again, quieter this time. "Understood. Stay safe out here, Dr. McKay."
He knows my name. Of course he does. The security briefings would have included that information too. Nothing sinister about it. Just another servicemember doing his due diligence, making sure the civilian contractor isn't in danger on an isolated stretch of beach.
I don't respond, keeping my attention fixed on my notebook until I hear his footsteps fade down the beach. Only then do I let myself breathe normally again.
The hermit crab has disappeared into a crevice in the rock, which means I've lost my behavioral observation. I close my notebook with more force than necessary and start packing up my field kit. The light is strengthening rapidly now, painting the sky in shades of rose and amber. Beautiful, if I let myself pay attention to that sort of thing. But beauty is a distraction, and I've got work to do.
My research boat bobs gently at the small dock about a hundred yards down the beach, white hull bright against the dark water. It's a seventeen-foot center console with a reinforced hull for coastal survey work, equipped with depth finders, water sampling equipment, and enough storage for a full day's worthof data collection. The base assigned it to me when I took the contract, along with a slip at the marina and fuel allocation for weekly surveys.
I shoulder my field kit and start picking my way across the rocks toward the beach. The runner is long gone now, just another figure in the distance heading back toward the main base. Probably a SEAL, based on the early schedule and the way he moved. SEALs are based at Tidewater for joint operations training with the Marine Raiders and other special operations units. The kind of men who jump out of helicopters and dive in dangerous waters and do things that get redacted from official reports.
The kind of men I have zero interest in getting to know.
My boots hit sand, and I make quick time across the beach to the dock. Morning has arrived in full now, and I can see other base personnel beginning their day. Lights are on in the buildings across the water, and I catch the distant sound of engines turning over. Tidewater is waking up, which means I need to get my survey done before maritime traffic picks up.
The boat rocks slightly as I step aboard, and I stow my field kit in the waterproof locker before moving to the helm. Pre-departure checks are second nature now. Bilge dry, navigation lights working, radio charged and monitoring the emergency channel. I run through the list the way my father taught me years ago on his fishing vessel, back when tide pools were playgrounds and the ocean was just something wonderful to explore.
Everything looks good. Everything always looks good until it doesn't.
I turn the key in the ignition, and the engine coughs once before settling into its normal rumble. Fuel gauge shows three-quarters of a tank, more than enough for today's survey route. I'll be running a grid pattern about two miles offshore, collectingwater samples and bathymetric data to track how the last storm system affected the seafloor topography.
Exciting stuff, if you're into coastal geomorphology and sediment transport dynamics. Which I am, professionally speaking. It's one of the few things I trust myself to care about anymore.
My hand goes to the throttle, ready to ease away from the dock, but something makes me pause. Some instinct that has nothing to do with marine biology and everything to do with learning that gut feelings exist for a reason.
I step away from the helm and move to the engine housing, popping it open to expose the machinery beneath. Probably nothing. Probably just old conditioning whispering that nowhere is truly safe and everyone is a potential threat.
But Seattle taught me that sometimes paranoia is just pattern recognition wearing a different hat.
I lean over the engine, checking the obvious components first. Fuel lines are intact, no visible leaks or tampering. Battery connections are solid. Belts and hoses look normal. Everything appears exactly as it should be for a well-maintained survey vessel assigned to a civilian contractor on a military base with decent security protocols.
I close the engine housing and straighten up, annoyed with myself. This is the problem with rebuilding trust. You can't just decide to start believing the world is safe again. The belief has to be earned back, piece by piece, survey by survey, morning by morning when nothing bad happens.
Reclaiming that has been harder than finishing my doctorate, harder than landing this contract position, harder than starting over with a different name in a place where nobody knows my story.
The sun is fully up now, painting the water in shades of gold and blue. High tide is at eight-thirty this morning, which givesme a solid three-hour window to complete my survey grid and return before the tidal current gets too strong for safe navigation near the shoals.
I return to the helm and cast off the dock lines, letting the boat drift free before engaging the throttle. The engine responds smoothly, pushing the bow toward open water as I navigate out of the marina. Morning light sparkles on the small waves, and a few gulls wheel overhead, probably hoping I'll throw them scraps.
Sorry, birds. Fresh out of fish.
The coordinates for my first sampling station are already programmed into the GPS, and I set a course that will take me past the northern edge of the base's restricted training area. Naval exercises aren't scheduled for today, according to the maritime coordination brief I reviewed last night, which means I should have clear access to my survey grid.
Should have. Military schedules change, and civilian contractors are expected to adapt.
I'm about a quarter mile from the dock when the engine sound shifts. Just slightly, a subtle change in the rhythm that probably wouldn't register if I hadn't been running this boat multiple times a week for three months. My hand goes to the throttle, pulling it back to idle as I listen.
There. Something wrong in the mechanical heartbeat beneath my feet.
Probably just debris caught in the intake. Happens sometimes in coastal waters, especially after storms churn up the bottom and send all kinds of material drifting through the shipping channels.
I put the engine in neutral and move to the stern, leaning over to check the lower unit. Water flow looks normal from the cooling system. No visible obstructions around the propeller.But that off-rhythm is still there, quieter now at idle but definitely present.
I should go back. Turn around, return to the dock, and report the issue to base maintenance. They'll pull the boat, inspect it properly, and have it back in service within a few days at most.
