A string of hyperlinks popped up, and Anders sat up straighter as he scanned through them, each headline more alarming than the next.
The Island Sinking into the Bay
Washing Away: The Vanishing Island
Frick Island: A Place in Crisis
Crisis? Good Lord, Anders thought, his eyebrows having risen halfway to his hairline. Except when he visited the island, it hadn’t exactly had the vibe of a place in crisis. Disrepair? Sure. Old-school? Definitely. But crisis? Not quite. He clicked on and skimmed a few of the articles, which all detailed the same point Jess had mentioned earlier—global warming was steadily increasing sea levels, which NASA assessed could rise up to two full meters in the next hundred years. And Frick Island—which lay exactly at sea level in the Chesapeake Bay— would at the very least be in dire trouble, if not completely underwater.
And while he read through article after article, Anders couldn’t help but think the journalists had missed something very vital: What did the people of Frick Island think about all this?
It was egregious, in fact, the oversight. How could you write a story about an island in crisis without the perspective of the actual islanders? He knew newspaper budgets were tight—maybe no one thought it was worth it to make the inconvenient trip to that little strip of land smack in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. And yet, here Anders was. Less than two hours away from that little strip of land. A strip of land that might just contain the perfect story for a long-form podcast.
A story he had missed the first time he was there.
He pulled up his email and clicked on the saved message from NoManIsAnIsland, this time a buzz forming in his belly. The buzz he got whenever he felt maybe he was onto something. Was it climate change? Was that what this anonymous tipster was referring to?
Maybe it was a cry for help. Anders sat up straighter. Maybe he could tell a story that others had missed. Something that could make a difference and save the island, once and for all! That was one of the reasons he’d gotten into journalism—before Spotlight, no less—because he knew one reporter following the right trail could make a big difference in the lives of others. One only had to look at Serial—the popular true-life podcast about a convicted murderer who may not have committed the crime—to see that podcasts had the same opportunity as newspapers, maybe even more so. OK, so maybe the murder suspect hadn’t gotten a new trial in the end, but millions of people had been educated about the pitfalls of the American justice system.
His chest puffed a bit as he briefly allowed himself to imagine the heroic scenario to fruition (because although his intentions were mostly altruistic, he was, of course, still human): the millions of gripped listeners, the grateful faces of the islanders, not to mention the accolades rolling in—maybe he’d win a People’s Choice Award, the iHeartRadio Podcast of the Year, a Pulitzer! Though he wasn’t technically sure the Pulitzer recognized podcasts.
What he did know was that even though he’d sworn he’d never go back, that buzz in his belly (and resulting hero fantasy) alone was enough to compel him to take one more trip over to that strange little island.
But this time he’d be prepared, he thought, remembering the sweltering heat, the uncomfortable boat ride, the sweat. He eyed the worn shirt hanging on the chair. This time, he’d wear short sleeves.
Chapter 7
On Saturday morning, BobDan Gibbons kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other wrapped around the microphone he spoke into as the ferry chugged its way through the thick, salty air of the bay from Winder Cove Marina back to Frick Island. “The crabs don’t know it’s raining,” he said for the eight thousandth time, and waited a beat for the joke to hit. He could give this speech in his sleep—and one time did, if his wife, Shirlene, was to be believed. She said he was always grumbling at night, saying all kinds of weird things, but he wouldn’t know. He was asleep.
His mind wandered as he moved on to the bit about Maryland blue crabs being superior to any other crustacean out there. He had plenty to think about this morning—like how he really should quit smoking, and not just when Shirlene was around. Or how it was getting toward the end of tourist season, and he hadn’t made nearly half of what he needed in ferry ticket and bird-watching tour revenue to get him and Shirlene through the battened-down cold months of winter. He’d been around long enough to know that money ebbed and flowed like the tide. Some seasons were better than others and that was just the way it was—but he wasn’t sure if a tourist season had ever been this light.
And that boat—good Lord, he knew people in town were talking. How long was he gonna leave it there, sitting up on wood blocks in front of the marina, the wormholes still in the hull? An eyesore, is what it was. But what could he do? He’d cleaned it up best he could, scrubbing it down, removing the dried seaweed and ocean debris, but he didn’t have the money to fix it up, and it certainly wasn’t seaworthy enough to drop in the water and tie up to the dock. It’d sink quick as a lead fishing weight. Though, truth be told, BobDan thought maybe the bottom of the sea was where it should have stayed.
He maneuvered the ferry into the slip—something else he could do in his sleep, or at least blindfolded—at the end of the marina’s dock. He tossed the bowline to the Perkins kid, who appeared right on time, which wasn’t always the case. Shirlene wanted BobDan to give up more responsibility—at least let someone else drive the ferry a couple times a week. But the only person BobDan trusted at least halfway with something like that was his son, and after he got discharged from the navy, instead of coming back home, he got married to a girl he met at a port in California (California!), and it was like pulling teeth just to get them to come visit for Christmas. When the boat was secured and the Perkins kid dropped the metal walkway plank into the boat, BobDan got out first so he could help any of the passengers—only five today—out of the boat, if need be.
He scanned each of their faces and recognized a mainland couple who had started coming annually for their anniversary about five years ago. He nodded to them, welcomed them back to the island, and then did a double take when he saw the boy bringing up the rear. He must have been lost in his thoughts to have not noticed the boy boarding the boat in Winder, but it was the same kid who got stuck out here after the Cake Walk and asked to use his phone in the marina. BobDan didn’t know who he had called—a mother, maybe a girlfriend who had expected him home that night—it wasn’t in his nature to eavesdrop on a private conversation. But he did know that kid did not take to the news that he’d be spending the night on the island well, and he was surprised to see him back.
“Didn’t think we’d be seeing you again so soon,” he muttered when the boy got close to the steps. “Frick Island growing on you?”
“Something like that,” the boy said, stepping off the boat. Then he grinned at BobDan. “I listened today.”