On the Rocks Read online

  Copyright © Eric Walters 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: On the rocks / Eric Walters.

  Names: Walters, Eric, 1957– author.

  Series: Orca currents.

  Description: Series statement: Orca currents

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190169036 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190169044 | ISBN 9781459823648 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459823655 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459823662 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8595.A598 O58 2020 | DDC jC813/.54—dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943989

  Simultaneously published in Canada and the United States in 2020

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for middle readers, fourteen-year-old Dylan, sent to live on a remote island with his estranged grandfather, discovers a stranded orca.

  Orca Book Publishers is committed to reducing the consumption of nonrenewable resources in the making of our books. We make every effort to use materials that support a sustainable future.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Tanya Trafford

  Design by Ella Collier

  Cover artwork by stocksy.com/Zoran Djekic

  Author photo by Sofia Kinachtchouk

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  23 22 21 20 • 4 3 2 1

  To those who dedicate their lives to caring for animals in need.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  My stomach rose up as the boat slammed down through another wave. I hung on to the railing—and leaned slightly over the side just in case. The spray showered me. I was already soaked to the bone, so it really didn’t matter. I couldn’t get any wetter unless I fell into the ocean. That thought made me hang on even tighter as my mind started to play with the idea of being tossed overboard. The crew might not even notice that I was in the water. Then they’d have to turn around and try to find me before I disappeared under the waves.

  “How are you doing?”

  I turned around. It one of the crew members. He had told me his name was Jag Singh. He was wearing an orange rain suit with reflective stripes and a matching orange turban without reflective stripes.

  “I’ve been better,” I answered.

  “It could be worse out here.”

  “I’m not sure how it could be worse than this.”

  “Oh, it can be, believe me. There have been trips where I’ve been hanging over the edge, sharing my lunch with the fish.”

  “I can’t even think about food.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s only another twenty minutes until we dock.”

  I nodded and instantly regretted the motion.

  “I’m sure you don’t remember me,” said Jag.

  “You introduced yourself two hours ago,” I replied.

  He laughed. “No, I mean from a long time before that. You were only about five years old, so that would have been what, eight or nine years ago?”

  “I guess. I’m fourteen now.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. You and your mother came over to the island. How is she anyway?”

  “What?”

  “Your mother. How is she doing?”

  I gave him a curious look. What was it to him?

  “She and I went to school together.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that,” I said.

  “She was always nice to me.” He pointed up at his turban. “Sometimes other people weren’t as nice.”

  “That sounds like her. She’s nice to everybody.” She’d always said that “people are people,” and she treated everyone the same way.

  Jag chuckled. “Good to know she hasn’t changed. So how is she doing?”

  For a split second I thought about telling him the truth—that my mom was in an alcohol-abuse treatment program—but what was the point? There would be no gain for her or for him or for me in telling him.

  “She’s fine. She’s doing well.”

  “Great to hear that. Will she be joining you on the island?” he asked.

  “Maybe later this summer. For now it’s just me. I’m going to be here for six weeks.” Until my mom gets out of treatment.

  “It would be good to see her again to say hello and catch up.”

  “I’ll tell her you said hi when I talk to her.” What I didn’t tell Jag was I didn’t think Mom was even allowed to use her cell phone—at least, not until she was in better shape.

  “Thanks. So how long has it been since you’ve seen your grandfather?” Jag asked.

  “A long time.” It was probably the time I’d been out here when I was five. I basically had no memory of him.

  “You know he’s a pretty famous painter, right? That must be where your mother got her talent.”

  My mom is super talented, but she hasn’t painted much in the last few years. I know about my grandfather being a well-known painter but not much more about him—other than that he and Mom don’t get along. That’s why we never see him.

  “I know some of your grandfather’s paintings have sold for a lot of money,” Jag said.

  “Yeah, I heard that too,” I said. “So how well do you know him?”

  “Not really well, but we deliver his supplies—you know, groceries, things for the house, even his art supplies. We probably come out this way every three or four weeks. We ferry supplies and passengers to all the islands around here.” He paused. “Not that your grandfather has a lot of visitors.”

  “But he does have some visitors?”

  “Not many and not in a while. Sometimes his agent. I like him, but your grandfather can be a little…a little, um…”

  “Hard to get along with?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so. He’s probably friendliest to Captain Ken. He and Captain Fukushima go a long way back. But you know, those artsy types can be a little bit different.”

  My mother probably would have used other words to describe her father. Then again, what did I know? It wasn’t like I’d heard her say much about him at all. And really, even with the bad stuff, how much truth was there in anything she said? She was telling her side of things.

  “There’s the tip of the island now.”

  I looked up and through the spray and mist. Rocks and trees were visible in the distance. There were dark clouds behind that—it was beautiful and scary and eerie all at once. It looked like a painting, all serious and dark. Was it an omen of what was to come?

  “I have to get to my station and prepare to dock,” Jag said. He walked away.

  We bounced along. We were getting closer, but not fast enough. I could just see the waves smashing against the rocks on the shore. There were lots of rocks and trees—tall, sweeping trees. The only tall things where I live are apartment and office buildings.

  We rounded another little poi
nt, and the wind and the waves died down a bit. Up ahead I saw the outline of a small wooden pier jutting into the water. That had to be where we were heading. I hoped that was where we were heading. I just wanted to get solid ground under my feet again.

  We entered a protected little cove. The wind and waves definitely were less powerful now, and there wasn’t even any spray in my face. I almost missed the spray. It had been the only thing keeping me from throwing up again—not that I had anything left in my stomach to come up.

  I could make out a figure on the dock. He was wearing a dark rain jacket, and his face was hidden under the hood. It had to be my grandfather—my mother’s father. But that didn’t make him any less of a stranger.

  Closer and closer. The dock was made of heavy-looking beams, and the sides were rimmed with thick black tires. The man—my grandfather—looked up and gave a little wave. Reluctantly I waved back. Then I turned and went inside to retrieve my bag.

  Chapter Two

  Jag tossed a rope to the dock—to my grandfather—and he grabbed it and pulled us in. The engine roared, and then we bounced against the tires. I held on to the rail to stop from tumbling over. Jag ran down the side of the boat and jumped onto the dock. He tied the back of the boat to the dock while my grandfather tied the front. I waited until the boat was snug against the dock and then climbed off the boat. The dock was wet and slick. I started to slip, then regained my footing.

  “Hello, Dylan,” said my grandfather. He held out his hand.

  I studied him, looking for emotion. Was he happy to see me? No, he looked as nervous and uneasy as I felt.

  “I guess you know who I am,” he said.

  “I’ve seen pictures, but you’re older.”

  He laughed—it was a nervous laugh. “A lot older, but then, so are you.”

  Jag was holding a large crate.

  “Let me give you a hand with that,” my grandfather said. He turned and walked away from me. I felt relieved. I thought he was probably relieved too.

  How was this going to work? How was I going to spend the next six weeks with a man who was my grandfather but basically a stranger? It probably would have been easier if he actually were just a stranger.

  The way Jag and my grandfather were straining with the crate, I knew it had to be heavy. They set it down on the dock. My grandfather was old, but he looked pretty strong. He had gray hair and matching gray stubble but moved like somebody a lot younger.

  “Do you have my art supplies in there?” he asked.

  “I have a second one for you,” Jag said.

  Jag disappeared into the boat’s cabin at the same time the captain stepped out.

  “How are you doing, Angus?” the captain asked as he stepped onto the dock and extended his hand toward my grandfather.

  “Well, my friend. And you?” The two men shook hands, and for the first time I saw my grandfather smile.

  “Good, good, can’t complain. So this is your grandson?” the captain said, gesturing to me.

  My grandfather turned to face me. He seemed to be studying me. “That’s what I’ve been told,” he said, “but I don’t think he looks much like me.”

  “You’re right. He doesn’t look like you,” said the captain. “He’s good-looking.” He started laughing. So did my grandfather. “He does look like your daughter though.”

  I’d been told that before.

  Jag came back carrying a second crate—it was smaller than the first.

  “Jag, don’t you think the boy looks like Becky?” asked the captain.

  Becky. Nobody called her that these days. She was Rebecca or Rebe but never Becky.

  Jag put down the crate and looked at me.

  “I can see the resemblance. Especially in the eyes. There’s something there. But I can also see that the weather is closing in.”

  “For sure,” the captain said. “We better get going while we can or we’re going to have to put in for the night here.”

  “You know you’re always welcome,” my grandfather said.

  “Depending on how it goes once we’re out there again, you might see us back for the night.”

  I thought it might be better if they did stay. They were basically strangers, but I felt more comfortable around Jag and Captain Fukushima than I did around my grandfather.

  “Are you all right to get things up to your cabin?” Jag asked.

  “We’ll get them up,” my grandfather said. “We’ll manage.”

  They shook hands and said their goodbyes. As the captain shook hands with me, he pulled me in closer. “He’s a good man,” he whispered. “Even if he doesn’t show it sometimes.”

  I nodded as he let go of my hand. I wasn’t sure if his words were meant to be reassuring or a warning or both.

  The captain and Jag got back on the boat. My grandfather helped them untie the lines and cast off. The engine roared as the boat backed away. It started to rain.

  “No time to waste,” my grandfather said. “Grab one end.”

  He took the front of the bigger crate, and I reached down and grabbed the other. We heaved it up. I was surprised by how heavy it was. I felt the strain in my arms and back.

  The way we were positioned meant I was looking directly at him across the length of the crate. I wanted to look away.

  “Hold on,” he said. He shifted his grip and turned around so his back was to me and he could walk forward.

  He started to walk, and I jerked forward along with him.

  We stepped off the dock and immediately started up a steep path. It was very rough, with rocky steps and lots of places to trip. I almost lost my footing a couple of times. The rain was picking up and pelting against my face—it was cold and sharp and strong. The higher we got, the more the wind picked up.

  I felt the weight in my arms and also on my back. I wasn’t carrying only the crate—my pack was on my back. It contained basically everything I owned. My clothes—the few things I had—an extra pair of shoes, an old photo album and a couple of things I’d made for my mother for Mother’s Day over the years. Everything else had either been left behind or sold out from under me, hocked to pay the rent or—well, sold.

  Struggling up this hill might have been the first time I was grateful for not having much of anything.

  “It’s not much farther,” my grandfather said, without looking back.

  “I know. It’s just through those trees, right?”

  “Yeah.” He turned around slightly. “You remember?”

  I nodded. Walking up this hill had brought back memories—or at least a hint of memories. It was like I couldn’t remember the path in my head but felt it in my legs. I’d climbed these steps. I’d walked this path before.

  We got to the shelter of the trees. It didn’t stop the rain, but it did break the wind. I looked past my grandfather and down the path. There was the cabin. It didn’t look very big. I’d figured it was going to be small, but it was smaller than I remembered it.

  “Watch yourself,” said my grandfather as we made our way up the wooden steps to the cabin.

  “What?”

  Before he could answer I tripped, almost dropping the crate.

  I looked down. The middle stair was missing a board. My grandfather didn’t miss a beat, and we continued up the steps and onto the porch. Finally we were under shelter.

  “Put it down right here,” he said. My back and legs were happy when we set it down. “You go inside, and I’ll go down and get the other one.”

  “I can go,” I volunteered without thinking.

  He shook his head. “You’ve already carried more than your share. Besides, you’re not dressed for the weather. Go inside and get changed into something dry.”

  He turned and set off. I watched him walk away. I stood there, the rain pounding down on the porch roof. A little bit of rain was being blown by the wind and misting over me. The door was right there. Somehow it seemed wrong to just walk in. But it seemed even more wrong to stand out here.

  I hesitated. I
almost knocked. That would have been beyond stupid. I partially opened the door and peered inside. Warm air flowed out. I let the door open completely. It was darker inside, but I could see old furniture—big, overstuffed furniture—and carpets on the floor. I smelled smoke, and then I saw where it was coming from—there was a big woodstove in the back. A fire was glowing.

  I went to step inside and then decided I’d do one thing first. I grabbed the crate and hefted it up. I strained and struggled but managed to bring it inside, dropping it onto the floor.

  I closed the door, and the sound of the rain was blocked out. Now I could hear a ticking clock and the crackling of the fire. I slipped off my pack and put it on top of the crate. It felt good to be free of the weight.

  I looked around. The walls were covered with art. Some pieces were formally framed, but others were just canvas stretched over a wooden frame. Most of the paintings were of landscapes and animals of the area—killer whales, bears and otters. I knew they were my grandfather’s. I recognized the style. I’d seen much more of his art than I had of him, and, like Jag said, he was pretty famous. At least, he was with those artsy types my mother used to hang around with when I was younger.

  I couldn’t help noticing that there were stacks of dirty cups and plates—some with half-eaten and moldy-looking food—on the counters and coffee table. It looked like he hadn’t done the dishes for about a month.

  A chill went through my body. I was wet and cold. I needed to get out of these clothes and into something dry. But I wasn’t going to change in the middle of the room.

  I walked over and pushed open a door. It was much darker in that room, but from the light coming in through a small window I could make out that it was a bedroom. There was a big, unmade bed in the middle and a cluttered dresser on the far wall. More cups and dishes too. This had to be my grandfather’s room. I closed the door.

  I went to the next one. I could smell what was in this room even before I pushed open the door—paint. My senses were confirmed. It was a studio. There were easels and drop cloths, big tables, containers of brushes—brush ends up—cans of paints, pallets and many, many more paintings.

  Unlike every other room in the house, this one was tidy. Cluttered but tidy. No dirty dishes or moldy food.