Twenty-year-old, brunette, dark-eyed Liz Lanestii continues reading the article on her old-but-still-functioning-fine-most-of-the-idle-time LG smartphone. Yesterday (Sunday, May 3, 2020) an unidentified 19-year-old kayaker, a young lady very much like herself, drowned while out alone on Netarts Bay. After taking another sip from a maroon mug of radiator-steam-piping-hot, mocha-flavored coffee and gazing out her Bay City bedroom window (in her parents’ hillside home) at bluish gray Tillamook Bay, her mind ponders what may have happened. So, she had a life jacket, but wasn’t wearing it. Typical. They found it and her kayak on the sandy spit. Hmmm … Were the waves really that big yesterday? Maybe she panicked when she started getting drawn out towards the surf. Maybe she lost the paddle, and her kayak got hit while sideways to a wave. Maybe that’s how it capsized: it got rolled over. And later got grounded on the spit. Would be interesting to investigate. Tomorrow looks perfect: a mildly-coolish-yet-pleasant-for-kayaking high of 63° [Fahrenheit; 17° Celsius] and mostly sunny after noon; no rain; light southwest wind. Yeah, time to go for another exploratory kayak expedition. Nothing else to do in this Covid-19 lockdown. Maybe that’s why she went kayaking: to escape from the incessant interior boredom.
The next day is a froggy-foggy, quiet-as-a-misplaced-whim Tuesday morning. Right before the imported-from-Germany, living-room grandfather clock’s clang of ten o’clock, both of Liz’s parents leave for work at a nearby cheese factory. At 10:54 she begins securing her 9’-9” (three-meter-long), lime-green, polypropylene kayak to the roof rack of her now-dull-pewter-gray, desperately-in-need-of-a-car-wash 2011 Subaru Outback. She places the foldable, bright-yellow paddle and olive-green life vest in the back seat. Dirt on the floorboard carpet arrests her eyes. Really need to vacuum this car out. Maybe do it afterwards. Seems that I always think to do that. And then forget about it later.
The brake shoes screech as she descends Portland Avenue/Street towards 5th Street, where she veers left, and very quickly turns left to alight on US 101 South. Traffic is light. Visibility is improving by the minute; Tillamook Bay is clearly visible now just off to her right. There is a lone, white, small fishing boat slowly making its way northward towards the Pacific Ocean inlet/outlet. Wonder if Karen [a Filipino-American friend who lives in just-up-the-road Garibaldi] heard the story about that kayaker. She may have even known her. Need to call or text her later.
Nine semi-remote minutes later, Liz is at a Burger King drive-thru window in the eponymous county-seat town of Tillamook. While donning a disposable, powder-blue facemask, she pays with a debit card. The face-shield-wearing, nitrile-gloved, 30-ish, raven-haired Latina employee hands back her silver card. What strange times we are living in now. Never saw this coming while making that optimistic ‘Here’s to a marvelous 2020!’ toast on New Year’s Eve.
While eating a veggie burger in the parking lot and gazing at a vacant, lush, ultra-green field, she thinks about a guy her age who died from an opioid overdose on nearby, uninhabited, structure-less Snag Island on the Trask River (which flows into the southern toe of Tillamook Bay). And the police are still not sure how Richard got to that obscure island. [The island’s closest point to the mainland is over 50 feet (15.24 meters).] Did he swim such a wide gap? No way. It’s too far to attempt in cold water, even if the current is slow. And, even if you make it across without cramping up, you would still be wet and freezing cold. Wait! They said his clothes were dry. Did he change into another set of clothes that he had in a waterproof bag? Or, was he dropped off there by a boat? Was he already dead? Maybe he died at someone’s house party and they freaked out. No, the police said that they saw his shoeprints. Thus, he was alive when he first got to the island. Alive but zonked out of his mind on downers. Stumbling around. Why did whomever he was with abandon him? And just leave him there all alone to die? They said his wallet was still on him, along with his cash and cards. Apparently nothing was taken. Therefore, it wasn’t another roll-and-dispose robbery. Really an odd case. Maybe the truth will come out over the next few weeks. Tongues will loosen. Bet the police know more than what has been made public. Would make for an interesting novel. Novel. This novel coronavirus is taking a mental toll. Sure wish it would just fade out. Soon.
Eight placid minutes later, Liz is back on US 101 heading south into more sunlight. She is soon entering mostly-closed-and-eerily-shuttered downtown Tillamook. After making a right turn onto 3rd Street (Oregon Route 131), she sees a black-leather-jacketed, denim-panted, unusually slim, light-brown-haired dude on the sidewalk with a bemused facial expression. That guy kind of looks like Richard. Wonder if he knew him. Or the drowned kayaker. Or my ex. Yikes! Connections. And disconnections. How long has it been now? Two weeks tomorrow. A lucky-so-far 13 days since our breakup. [via text messages] Hope Stanley stays disconnected from me. Never want to see that creep again. The meth[amphetamine] completely changed him; made him into an unrecognizable monster. Woah! Holy shhh …
Liz hits the brakes. Her tires skid, but she doesn’t go past the widely white crosswalk stripes at the 4-way stop. That was close. Too close. Need to pay attention to the road. Cease the mental meandering.
A sparkling, super-shiny, electric-blue sedan on her right slowly makes a right turn from Stillwell Avenue onto 3rd Street. The balding, middle-aged, Caucasian, mini-beret-topped driver gives her an icy stare. Hey, I stopped in time. I didn’t touch your oh-so-precious [Toyota] Prius. Just get going now! That’s it. Good day, sir. Prius prick!
And then the Prius driver licks his upper lip as his car completes the 91° turn. Gross. What a lech! Get lost, perv!
Liz then motions for an old, rusty, once-cherry-red-but-now-faded-auburn Ford pickup truck on her left to go next. The late-40-ish, mustachioed Latino driver nods to accept her offer and quickly makes a left turn. Excellent! Now there is a vehicle between me and that wacko.
After crossing an old, concrete-on-steel-girder, two-lane bridge over a lazy section of the Trask River, Liz sees the Ford pickup truck slowing down. Its left turn signal comes on. Soon the Latino exits the bucolic highway for a dairy farm. The rear hatchback of the Prius is suddenly seen about 150 feet (46 meters) ahead. Oh, great! Now I’m directly behind that pervert. Hope he is not going all the way to Netarts. Would just be my luck.
The gap between them remains about the same as they both proceed at 50 MPH (80 km/h). After passing over the Tillamook River on a left-curving concrete bridge, the Prius slows and turns right without incident, or turn signal, onto Bayocean Road NW. Too important to flick that little plastic lever, are you? Well, at least he’s gone. Bet he’s the deviant sicko of Barnegat. Wonder if he ever gawked at the kayaker who drowned. Such an odd thought. Such an odd life this is.
Seven relieved minutes later, Liz is pulling into the public boat ramp on Netarts Bay Drive. There are nine vehicles, pickup trucks and SUVs, all with boat trailers, in the large triangular lot. She parks and glances southward across the bay. A shamrock-green ridge catches her eye. Whiskey Ridge is what Richard called it. Though, don’t think that is the official name. Gosh, he was so smashed that night up there last fall. Wonder what his final thoughts were. Well, it looks to be a rain-free, mostly sunny afternoon, just as the forecast predicted. Maybe just eat an energy bar first. And gulp down some alkaline water. Yeah. Wonder if that kayaker launched from here. Probably. Wonder what her last thoughts were. ‘I’m doomed; it’s over.’ ??? Scary. Hmmm … Need to check the tide chart again.
Liz notices on her phone that the next high tide will be at 12:08 PM, and the next low tide will be at 6:22 PM. So, the next high tide is in 29 minutes. I believe that Netarts has a progressive wave kind of tidal current, as it is very close to the inlet. Therefore, the inward current is probably pretty strong right now. But in a half-hour, it should be the beginning of slack water for several hours. Easy paddling. No worries. Can be to the spit and back in less than hour. No problem.
The Subaru is soon parked beside the boat ramp. Liz has her kayak off the car and in the water in just six minutes. After re-parking in the smaller, adjacent, rectangular lot, she walks back to the dock already wearing her life vest. What a nice day. Good fat-burning exercise. Maybe come back next time with a friend. Bet that Karen would like this. She is fairly adventurous, yet laidback – not bitchy like ‘the queen bee’, watch-me-steal-your-guy Marie. Nor as annoying as ‘let me do it first’ Cindy. Karen said that Cindy now has a ‘baby bump’. Ughhh, I hate that term. Just call it preggers. Wonder who the father is. Does party girl even know? Probably not.
Her tan, thin, ring-less, right index finger then scrolls to the left of the tide table. Hmmm … And, how were the tides last Sunday? High tide was at 9:59 AM at Netarts on May 3rd; low tide was at 4:47 PM. That poor kayaker was first reported in distress at 1:24 PM. Woah! That is almost exactly – to the minute – the midpoint between high and low tide. Subtract a minute for the time spent by the observer to confirm what he/she was seeing, and her drowning is exactly at the maximum ebb tide on that afternoon. But, that would be when the tidal current is the strongest in a standing wave scenario – not in a progressive wave one. Did she ride the ebb current for quite a long way across the bay, only to freak out when she saw ocean waves looming ahead? Do I really want to do this now? Oh, the current will be slight. Anyway, got the spray skirt. We can do this. Got to pee first.
Liz then walks over to the restroom building and relieves her bladder. As she re-approaches the dock, she doesn’t see her kayak. Darn it! Did some asshole steal it?! My ex? Is he stalking me? Please, no.
She walks closer, continuously scanning the parking lot. And then she finally sees it. The wind had pushed her kayak under the dock, next to a small sailboat. Whew! Glad it’s still there. Really thought it had been stolen.
Liz safely embarks, pushes off the vertically-split-in-several-million-places pier post, and begins to paddle her watercraft around the end of the wooden dock. Once out of the compact, duck-head-shaped, riprap-jetty-protected cove, she notices that there is indeed a slight current flowing southward. Quickly, she paddles out into the middle of the channel. The current is slightly stronger. Might as well ride it in. No harm in that. Just go with the flow. Just go wherever it goes. Why not? Not the plan, but … What in the world!
Just as the bay-filling current completely dissipates and slack tide takes hold, a red-striped, low-flying, single-engine airplane passes towing a bold, two-line banner that reads:
WAKE UP, FOLKS!
IT’S A PLANDEMIC!
Liz shakes her head and thinks: Ah, just wonderful. Plandemic, [sic] what a coinage. Another covidiot. [sic] Bet he took off from Tillamook Airport. Without washing his hands. Probably never wears a facemask, either. Bet he’s from Hemlock. Why did I assume that? Richard’s crazy friend was from there. That’s why. Wonder what Lawrence is doing right now. Probably his seventeenth bong hit. Did he know the kayaker? I seem to wonder about so many meaningless things these days. Not much else to do. Today is Cinco de Mayo. But, no parties anywhere. 5-5-20. Numbers. The number 5 is prime. Wonder how many two-digit prime numbers have reverse-digit primes. Let’s see. All the single-digit primes are out, because even if one places a zero to the left, all of them become even numbers when the zero moves to the right: 02/20, 03/30, 05/50, 07/70. Guess 11 would be the first and quite-the-snarky one. Nah, not going to count that one. Richard would have suggested it, though. Such a wiseacre at times. 13/31 is a doubly prime pair. So is 17/71. Hmmm … is 19/91? No, 13 x 7 = 91. None in the 20s, as the reverse becomes an even number: 23/32, 29/92. In the 30s, 31/13 again. And a new one: 37/73. Three unique couplets so far. None in the 40s per the even-on-the-reverse pattern. In the 50s there are … None. The reverse of both of them is a multiple of 5: 53/35, 59/95. In the 60s, none, just like the 20s and 40s. In the 70s, both 71/17 and 73/37 again. And another new one: 79/97. None in the 80s. And in the 90s … just 97/79 again. Thus, we’re up to how many pairs? Hmmm … four? Yeah, I think that’s it. Hmmm … 13 + 18 = 31 and 79 + 18 = 97. 17 + 54 = 71. And 37 + 36 = 73. Very interesting … two pairs have a difference of 18, 13/31 and 79/97; one pair has a difference of 36 (18 x 2), 37/73; and one prime pairing has a difference of 54 (18 x 3), 17/71. Never realized that before. Wonder if Mr. Zawlvecki [Liz’s most recent math teacher at Tillamook Bay Community College] is aware of this. Will have to mention it to him … whenever classes ever restart. Might as well start paddling back towards the boat ramp.
Liz snaps out of her numerical reverie to discover that she has only drifted as far as the RV park/marina (about ⅜ of a mile; 604 meters). She promptly turns her kayak around and begins to vigorously paddle back towards the boat ramp. The wind shifts to out of the south and increases. Perfect. I have a nice tailwind. There is still no current to speak of. I’m going for it. Happy Camp or bust! Hope I don’t have a heart attack. Why did I think that? My heart is fine. Probably because of dad’s heart attack two years ago. Only 49. Way too young. He seems to be doing ok, though. Wonder if his life expectancy has been shortened. Afraid to ask.
In only five-to-six minutes, Liz is passing the boat ramp. She rounds a long L-shaped jetty, and is soon heading true north past an assortment of bay-facing, Pearl Street West residences. Nice views from there I bet. Though, a tsunami would most certainly take them out, being so close to the inlet and minimally elevated above sea level. A risk they are willing to take, I guess. Everything has risks.
Liz turns her gaze to the left. She can see the wide head of the flat, barren, all-sand, waves-breaking-beyond spit. So, that’s where it all went wrong for her. Seems to be a very slight current going out. No, I think it’s just the wind. Too soon for the ebb-tide current. Or, is it?
She then notices a stream trickling through the sandy beach to the bay. Ah, already up to Hodgdon Creek. Yeah, I got this!
In just four frenetic minutes, Liz has paddled the kayak into the mouth of a creek across from Happy Camp Hideaway. The creek’s low outflow and the bay’s emerging ebb current cancel each other. She takes a break. Whew! I made it. Good calorie-crusher there. Need to catch my breath.
Suddenly her cell phone rings. She answers it.
“Hello, it’s Liz.”
“Hey, what are you doing, girl? You sound like you’ve been running?”
“Hi Karen. No, not running; I’ve been paddling the green teardrop on Netarts Bay. What’s up?” The green teardrop? Liz calls things the oddest nicknames.
“Are you sitting down?”
“I’m seated in my kayak,” Liz replies. Wonder who died now.
“It’s about your ‘sweetheart’ ex, dear. He’s now wanted for questioning in the death of Richard. Maybe he supplied him with the dope. And/or maybe he’s the one that left Richard on that island to die.” Wow!
“What?!” Liz shouts loud enough to cause a startled seagull to change its intended landing spot.
“Yep. The police seem convinced that he was directly involved. They are looking for him.”
“This is crazy, Karen. I didn’t even know that they knew each other.” How and where did they meet?
“You know how the druggies have their network, Liz. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Who knows where he is? Please be careful.” Sure hope that he doesn’t call or text me.
“Ok, will do. Stay safe. Bye.” So, Stanley is a person of interest. Wonder where the rat is hiding out. No telling. Hope the police round him up soon.
Liz begins paddling back. She experiences a slight outward-flowing current, and then veers left to catch a counter-current, staying just beyond the miniature, beach-breaking waves. An orange-baseball-capped, middle-aged, ghost-white-armed man waves to her from the backyard of one of the houses. She waves back. Wonder how he made his slight fortune. Stocks and bonds? Real estate? Internet-related? Drug-related? Wonder what led him to this what-many-would-call-isolated place.
As Liz’s kayak nears the boat ramp, she looks towards her car. There is a dirty-blonde-haired, Panama-Jack-hatted fellow standing next to it, who begins waving his hands frantically. Is that Stanley? Oh, crap! It is.
Stanley yells: “Need your help, babe!”
Liz begins paddling away from shore. What a maniac! Where are the police? Should I call them?
Stanley then dashes across the short lawn, sprints down the center of the jetty, and dives into the water. He swiftly swims towards Liz and closes the gap to 7½ feet (2.3 meters). Stops. Gasps. And drowns.