Soul of the Sea

By Jeff Bolinger

Betsy Kuhn has a big, bold dream. But how far will she go to make it a reality?

  Few sixteen-year-old girls spend their free time fishing the rugged coastline of Nova Scotia. But Betsy knows the scariest things in life aren't brutal storms, raging seas, or great white sharks-they're the terrors you don'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foeg
• Release date: Sep 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648733713

Book preview

Chapter 1

Elizabeth Betsy Kuhn rushed across her bedroom. The digital numbers on her bedside clock blinked 12:30 PM. She ignored her late homework assignment. Fridays were a half day at school. Betsy grabbed a scrunchie and fixed her light-brown hair into a ponytail as she hurried around the room, packing.

She crinkled her brow at Austin LeMire, who stood wearing a faded Team Fortress T-shirt. Why are you wearing a long-sleeve on such a sunny day?

It’s my lucky shirt.

On her birthday last June, he’d bought her the TF2 Merc Chicks one.

With his smiling brown eyes, long lashes, and flawless caramel skin, Austin turned more than a few heads. His sweet-guy nature and caring personality made it easy to be his friend, but she’d felt them drifting apart. He had met a couple of new friends.

She tossed Austin the last Peanut M&M.

Hey, a bluey—your favorite. Thanks.

I dropped it on the floor anyway, she joked.

Betsy kicked a soiled pink sweatshirt under the bed and grabbed a gray hoodie off the floor instead. The hoodie had belonged to her father, and she gave it a quick sniff. Ignoring the fishy smell, she smiled, soaking up the memories as she stuffed it into her pack. She jammed her feet into ratty sneakers.

She rejected the lame idea that girls fit into only one or the other extreme stereotypes—being girly or boyish. Betsy, like most girls in school, fell somewhere in between. She never pretended to be someone else. Still, staying true to herself often filled her with doubt about if being so determined was worth the pain.

She took a final sweep of the room. I think I got everything.

You should make a checklist like I do.

She rolled her eyes.

At least I never forget anything, said Austin.

Betsy grabbed her phone from the charger. She’d forgotten to plug it in last night. The battery icon glowed at only 50 percent. Sludge.

Austin grinned and gave her an I told you so look.

Pretending to not see him, she slid the device into the pocket of her khaki cargo shorts. She shouldered her bulging backpack, and they hurried along the slightly tilted floor of the corridor and clomped down three flights of narrow creaking steps.

Betsy paused on the bottom landing. I’ll meet you outside after I say bye to my mom.

I’ll start loading the pickup. Austin grabbed her pack and took a shortcut through the kitchen.

Her mother sat at an old, stylish wooden table, which served as the front desk and check-in area. She ran the historic 1825 manor house as a B&B named the Privateer Inn. The Kuhn family lived on the top floor because older guests struggled to climb the steep stairs.

With a phone to her ear, her body curled in as she pleaded with the bank not to cancel a credit card. A minute later she ended the call and sank her face into her hands.

An invoice on the desk was marked FINAL NOTICE. Betsy checked the register book and frowned. The guest list showed the occupancy at around only 10 percent over the last few days. If this continued, the Privateer Inn might not survive the summer.

Betsy stepped into her mother’s view. Hi, Mom. Everything okay?

Still waiting for the tourist influx. I was hoping for a bumper season. I guess most people are doing a staycation this year. Stress etched her mother’s face.

Don’t worry. Things will pick up soon. She clasped her mother’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, not believing her own lie.

Her mother gave a weak smile. I know, darling.

Are you sure you’ll be okay if I go? Betsy tried to ignore the pang of guilt. She hated going away for a night and leaving her mother to work the inn alone."

I’ll be fine and can always wrangle in your two brothers. You work hard to help me and need a break. Besides, we only have one guest booked anyway.

Austin and I are leaving now.

Phone charged? her mother asked without looking up from the pile of paperwork scattered across the table.

Yes.

Her mother stared over the top of her glasses.

I’ll do it in the pickup, Betsy said.

Have you checked the latest marine weather forecast?

Mom. This isn’t our first canoe camping trip.

Make sure to wear your flotation vest whenever you’re paddling on the water. They exchanged a knowing look.

I always do. Especially after what happened to her father.

Her mother raised a doubting brow. You’re a clever girl but a terrible liar. Have a fun trip and be safe. She tossed another invoice into the TO BE PAID tray.

Stepping outside, Betsy weaved between the patio dining area, which had sweeping hilltops views. A red-tailed hawk soared past a church steeple. The sleepy village of Miltondorf hugged the southwestern shore of the bay on the eastern coastline of Nova Scotia, Canada. Roughly surfaced roads twisted around cedar-shingled houses nestled among the spruce, birch, and maple trees. The last few patches of sea fog drifted along stretches of rocky shoreline.

She crossed the back garden to the driveway. Austin’s white weatherboard house stood next door. They had been neighbors their entire lives—all sixteen years of them.

Austin hunched over in the bed of the truck, rearranging the camping equipment and scuba diving gear.

Betsy ran her fingers along the driver’s door of the battered Toyota Tacoma, cherishing the loving memories the pickup always stirred up. Being the only girl, her father had let her pick the color. Since almost every other vehicle was black, she’d chosen blue—her father’s favorite. A film of grime dulled the blue paint job. Her father would be so disappointed. He washed his pride and joy every weekend. She needed to up her game.

The two friends finished loading their gear and climbed into the cab.

Betsy drove down Main Street along the historic waterfront precinct. She wiped away beads of sweat dripping down her temples and lowered the window. The AC didn’t work. No big deal. With a smile of relief, she welcomed the fresh breeze blowing across her skin.

On a street corner, Janie and Sylvia from school stood in pastel summer dresses, taking selfies. They laughed as three boys on skateboards photobombed them. Betsy shook her head and exhaled a quiet Pffft, but quickly chided herself. Fashion and flirting weren’t her thing, but she didn’t buy into the I’m not like other girls garbage. She kind of knew who she was—gutsy—and wanted to accept that person.

A steady trickle of tourists and locals strolled along the sidewalks. Restaurants, cafés, and gift shops lined both sides of the street. A group of four kids from school looked her way.

Betsy raised a hand in greeting, but one girl sent her a distaste-filled glance. She ignored the loathing look. Betsy didn’t consider herself superior or quirky, but she never really fit in. Her doubts resurfaced.

She wasn’t good enough to inherit her father’s business. The girls at school called her weird or a tomboy. And the one person she had a connection with, who really knew and saw her, was Austin. But when she’d confessed she had a crush on him, he’d responded by admitting he was gay.

Betsy exhaled a silent breath. She knew it was ridiculous to take it personally, but she still couldn’t help feeling stung by it.

"Hey! You just ran through a red light. The only traffic light in the village," said Austin.

Oops. I keep forgetting about that stupid thing.

It’s been there a year.

Her cheeks grew warm. If Betsy had made that blunder on her driver’s test last month, she’d still be on her learner’s, like Austin.

They approached the north side of town, where the main drag crumbled into a gravel road. The Tacoma crept past ramshackle houses and dilapidated warehouses. Out front of the Oarhouse Tavern sat a half dozen chopper motorcycles, as usual. Betsy recalled the time one of the dirtbag riders offered to sell her drugs. She’d declined, of course.

Beyond that black spot stood the working docks, where Reed, her younger brother, liked to hang out at the marine shop. Randy, the owner, was showing interest in their mother, and this added to Betsy’s confusion about where the family dynamics were heading.

She parked next to the watercraft storage.

Do you have to take the truck back? Austin asked.

Kyle will know where to find it.

Her nineteen-year-old brother was confident and cool and had been popular in school. He had their mother’s good looks and their father’s solid build.

Betsy glanced into the rearview at her crowded bottom teeth. She was proud of the scar on her chin, which highlighted her plain-looking features. Shoving open the squeaky door, she slid her average body out of the cab.

She and Austin struggled, hauling the heavy green wooden canoe to the water’s edge. Pausing to catch her breath, she crinkled her brow at Austin arranging and stowing each item. Eager to depart, she chucked stuff in.

Only two more weeks until summer break. Sweet, said Austin.

She and Austin went to the same public high school. They dived together at least every two or three weeks during the warm weather months. Both loved exploring the marine flora and fauna marvels. He dreamed of going to college to become a fisheries biologist.

Betsy smiled. Then we can do this anytime we want.

Maybe.

What’s that mean?

We won’t always be hanging out together.

Oh, of course. I get it. Since coming out, Austin had made some new friends.

She handed him his dive bag and stared across the water. Her father’s boat bobbed at its long-term mooring ball. She sighed. School bored her, and her grades had sunk below C level. It was one reason she wanted to drop out and be a fisherperson. Her body and spirit always connected while on the sea.

Three short blasts from a boat horn echoed across the tiny harbor.

Betsy cast a glance at a lobster fishing boat backing away from the dock. It’s Captain Zac.

Austin scoffed. The glass fisherman.

A fisherman that never touched fish, Betsy thought.

The two friends loaded the last of their gear in the canoe, and Betsy moved the pickup across the road to the public parking lot. Jogging back, she set her backpack on the rear seat of the Beast.

The expedition canoe belonged to her grandpa Kuhn. The Beast could haul everything she asked of it without complaint. The wooden hull made the craft tough but slow.

Austin scanned over her random loading arrangement. We should secure this stuff properly.

Betsy checked the time on her phone. She took in the refreshing sea breeze and lumpy waves. We’ll be okay.

Says the girl with a history of being reckless.

She placed her hands on her hips. I think you mean spontaneous.

"Let’s call it … passionate."

Betsy beamed, stepped inside the canoe, and sat in the rear seat. She ignored the gear haphazardly cluttered around her feet. I’m ready.

I’m serious. We need this stuff tied down for The Rip.

Letting her head fall back, Betsy groaned. Fine, but let’s make it quick so we can beat the run-in tide. She halfheartedly secured the back half of the Beast while Austin worked forward.

He glanced over his shoulder at her hasty work, shook his head, and tossed his backpack on the front seat. The pack slid over the side and splashed into the knee-deep water. Great. My phone’s in there.

Why didn’t you seal it inside a waterproof bag like we normally do?

I forgot.

Should’ve put it on your list. Betsy bit back a giggle. She had lost a phone over the side herself, which was why she kept hers in a Ziploc whenever on the water.

Austin waded around and retrieved his soaked pack.

Betsy hoped it wasn’t a bad omen as they shoved off.

Chapter 2

The Salty Clam café overlooked the waterfront and was wedged between the tourist precinct and the working district. Jerry Winchester rented a small house on the outskirts of Miltondorf. After dropping out of high school last year, he visited the Salty Clam regularly for the cheap lunchtime specials. From his stool, he hunched over the high table, chowing down his lunch of scallops and poutine—french fries smothered in cheese and gravy.

Jerry took a drink of soda and gazed across the sun-dappled water at the quiet little harbor town. Another dying Canadian fishing village where the harvest season tended to be short. It explained why so many lobstermen were always looking for a job. He slummed it working as a sternman on lobster fishing boats.

If he had enough spare cash at the end of each month, he’d rent a Beaver seaplane for an hour doing touch and goes. He was close to the required forty-five hours needed to get his private pilot’s license. His dream was to be a bush pilot.

A ten-meter lobster boat, the Whitney and Zac, pulled along the fuel pier and tied up. Some folks called it the Whack, either as a mashup of the name or in reference to the skipper’s ex-wife. Every sailor worth their salt knew it was bad luck to change a vessel’s name, so Zac left it.

He noticed how the café’s regulars avoided the skipper as he swaggered inside. Captain Zac Drake’s family wasn’t liked or trusted, but Jerry respected the man’s toughness. They had a something in common: both were jaded and did what it took to survive.

With his wide-spaced crazed eyes, large pouting mouth, and no neck, Zac reminded him of an old bullfrog. He spoke in a deep voice, sounding like he had a cheekful of small shells.

A wrinkled shirt covered Zac’s Molson muscle—beer gut. He nudged up the brim of his soiled Montreal Canadians ball cap and studied the menu board. The skipper snapped his fingers at an idle man at the till and ordered a sandwich. With his back against the counter, he scanned the local lair. Zac did a double take at Jerry, grinned, and crossed the room.

Jerry half expected this. His father and the shady skipper had worked some jobs together before his old man got thrown into prison. His mother left with her lover soon after, leaving Jerry to fend for himself. Desperate for money, he would listen to what Zac had to offer.

Word on the wind is you’re looking for some work, said Zac. I need a deck grunt tonight.

What’s the job?

The skipper checked over his shoulder and dropped his voice. Jerry, c’mon. Of course it’s going to be risky.

It wasn’t unheard of for a fishing captain, struggling to keep his livelihood afloat, to do the odd bit of smuggling. Runners would haul mostly small shipments of spirits from the New England states to beat the customs