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Tide-Trapped on Cape Fear

By Cindy M. Amos

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Twice daily, high tide clutched at Cape Fear’s private shore, strangling the island with its aggressive grip. Ciera Journey sat astride the overheated ATV, ready for her beach patrol duties to end. A mid-June dawn began to light the sky with the promise of a new day. Beyond the vehicle’s nubby front tire, cape pointe surrendered to the tidal pulse that shrank it to a submerged sandbar.
Her eyelids growing heavy, she found forward gear and started the last pass along south beach. Only one loggerhead sea turtle had nested all night, leaving her weary from scouting the surf in hopes of another arrival. For five years, she’d held the position of island naturalist for the Bald Head Island Conservancy’s protected species program, a world where sea turtles took top priority. Though her spirit remained committed to the task, her flesh grew weary since the work embraced the nocturnal schedule of the turtles. More kindred to a killdeer, she’d prefer to wake up with the dawn in the sun-lit land of the diurnal.
South Beach proved its normal challenge, a constricting band of eroding beachfront where wave-scarped dunes told a story of hapless surrender to the ocean’s chronic influence. Rumors of a sunken shipwreck along this stretch seemed more like pirate lore than factual legend since she’d never seen the first trace of wreckage buried in the sand. Up ahead, the steel supports of the island inn came into view, jutting beyond the dune line as the next potential victim of the ocean’s consuming wrath. She slowed the throttle to time her passage with a retreating wave and shot across wet sand unhindered.
The mouth of the mighty Cape Fear River loomed ahead, flanking the island with regular passage of sea-going vessels headed upriver to the thriving port of Wilmington, North Carolina. Though sea turtles rarely used the silted banks of the river for nesting, she’d buried several prop-struck victims caught swimming the channel in search of food. In a battle for territory, big ships conquered nature. Lights twinkled in the weak glimmer of dawn as a pilot boat married up with the incoming cargo ship to escort the giant vessel upriver.
She navigated the turn off south beach and gave some thought to stay and watch the ship glide past. When she slowed the ATV, shouts echoed off the water’s surface. Squinting to improve her line of sight, a dark rowboat appeared headed toward the island. Its tallest occupant delivered a hastened encouragement and motioned forward. As the cargo ship cut the channel with its towering prow, two more rowboats came into view, looking like bathtub toys against the gigantic rusty hull of the tanker.
Unease prodded a reach for her two-way radio. Talk about sitting ducks. Island Base would offer little help, as security staff operated on land. Only the workers’ barge kept such early hours, so the contact choice fell like second nature. “Captain Jimmy, do you read me?”
“Go ahead, Turtle Lady,” a raspy voice replied.
“We’ve got rogue ducklings on the pond this morning off the river mouth. Can you call your pilot buddy and have him slow down for a twenty count? Otherwise, that ship is bound to leave a string of human carcasses.”
“Roger. Making the call next. Go get some shut-eye, and I’ll see you down at the marina later.”
Like the tide, the island possessed a rhythm that all participants knew by heart. She rarely made an appearance before three o’clock in the afternoon due to her sleep schedule. The daily mail pickup always brought her to the marina by quitting time for most of the work force. Those construction laborers comprised her little community, along with a few permanent island residents. All other visitors came and went with the week’s lucrative rental rotation.
Within seconds, a collision appeared less likely, as the tiny boats maneuvered well off the pilot boat’s bow and made the channel crossing without further hazard. The lead boat waited for the others, and they rowed the last furlong side by side. Words from a rhythmic chant filled the morning air which led to blessing God for his mighty hand of deliverance.
Deferring to a position of strength, she slid from the ATV and strolled down to the shore to address the unwelcome invaders. Most visitors entered the marina, where they paid for the privilege of staying on a resort island. With camping prohibited, that left few options. Squatters by every appearance, she’d sort through this dawn invasion in short order.
The lead rower jumped from the dinghy and waded to shore, a commanding specimen with a strong jawline. “Good morning. I see we’ve been spotted.” Once on dry ground, he hesitated, bent from the waist, and removed his hat with a flourish like some deposed baron from a distant shore.
Ciera tried to ignore the dimples on his tanned cheeks, but like the rising tide, the masculine influence struck a blow. “Some David-versus-Goliath move out there, captain. I’m not so sure that’s the ideal way to make a landing on the shores of Cape Fear.”
His smile radiated confidence as other members of the party staggered ashore. “Yet here we stand, ready to begin our island adventure.”
She groaned at the complication, as entanglements often required a trip to Island Base. “I’m sure you have a reservation, sir—and company.”
He stepped toward her, offering his hand. “I’m Ryne Faulkner of Oak Island Infusion. Yes, we have two condos rented at Royal James Landing for this week. Since we had boats available at camp, we dodged the added expense of ferry tickets and included the river crossing as part of our mission.”
A young woman with her head wrapped in a turban stepped up beside him. “I made the reservations, so it may be in Ryne’s name—or mine, Becca Walters. We should have a tram pickup coming at the top of the hour.”
At the mention of time, Ciera’s temples began to throb from exhaustion. With an immediate crisis averted, she should take this woman at her word and fade into the island interior. “Okay then, you’re fine. My beach patrol ends here, and I need to hit the hay.”
The leader’s green eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his seaman’s cap as he gave her a salute. “Let the record show, we made landfall unscathed.”
She backed toward the ATV to gain better perspective. Once seated, the truth came easier. “You may have brandished your slingshot at the giant Philistine, but the SOS I had radioed out to slow the pilot boat saved your little flotilla from total carnage, Mr. Infusion.”
When his jaw dropped, she had all the reward she needed in the wake of an unprovoked act of mercy. Sand gritted against her eyelids as she blinked to start the ride home. Or maybe she couldn’t stand to behold the good-looking invader for one second longer. I just need sleep. She repeated that mantra all the way to the maintenance shop where she refueled the ATV for the next round of nocturnal patrols.
 

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