Purgatory Ridge

LePere wasn’t sure what he meant. How long had they been on the raft? How long until they were rescued? How long before they would be dead from exposure?

“Let’s light another flare,” LePere suggested. “Warm up some if we can.”

But neither man had the strength to move. Jurgenson fell into a coughing fit that obviously gave him a lot of pain. He slid back down onto the deck of the raft, folded his arms across his chest, and drew his legs up. “Tired,” he said. It was the last word he ever spoke.

The sun crossed the sky. LePere drifted in and out of consciousness. Time was an impossible measure. As dark crept over the lake, LePere gathered what little strength he had and lifted himself to peer over the gunwale of the pontoon raft. Under the evening sky, the lake was as calm as he’d ever seen it, flat and smooth and shiny. A few stars glimmered in the east. Beneath them, LePere made out a small constellation of stars, better defined and moving. A vessel. He kicked at Jurgenson. The man didn’t move. He tried to find the flare gun Jurgenson had dug out of the storage compartment, but it was not at hand and he had no strength for a search, no strength even to cry out above a hoarse whisper. He watched the lights sail off into the windless night and disappear. He lay back down, completely alone now. He was thirsty. His mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. But he didn’t have the strength to pull himself over the side and scoop water from the lake. Instead, he picked at ice that had formed on his peacoat and put it in his mouth to suck on.

And that was when his father came to him.

LePere didn’t recognize him at first. He was just a man sitting on the gunwale. His face glowed as if lit by a light just under his skin.

“Don’t eat the ice, Johnny,” he said.

LePere asked, “Who are you?”

“We’ve been waiting for you, and for Billy,” he said. “But it’s still not your time, Johnny.”

“Billy? Is he okay?”

“You’re the last one. The only one left. You’ve got to make it. You’ve got to set things right, son.”

“Dad? Is it you? I thought you were… Is Billy all right?”

“Don’t eat the ice, Johnny. It will lower your body temperature. It will kill you.”

“I was so scared for Billy.”

“Billy is with us. I’ve got to go. They’re waiting.”

“Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

“I’ll see you later. We’ll all be together again, Johnny. I promise. Remember. Don’t eat the ice.”

He faded, the outline of him lingering for a few moments, then he was gone, altogether and forever.

Although he wanted to more than he ever had, LePere could not cry. He didn’t have the water for tears.

It was another ten hours before a Coast Guard helicopter spotted him and he was plucked from the life raft that was drifting midway between the Apostle Islands and the Michigan shoreline. He was flown to a hospital in Ashland, Wisconsin. LePere had little memory of the rescue and of the hours that followed. Later, the doctors told him his body temperature was only ninety-four degrees when the Coast Guard brought him in. They were surprised he hadn’t died with the others on the raft. When he was able to respond, the Coast Guard questioned him. He told them about everything except the visit from his father. That was something he’d never told anyone. For a while, the doctors thought they might have to amputate some toes that suffered frostbite, but in the end, LePere’s body emerged whole from the ordeal. Everyone was encouraging. Everyone was amazed. You’re alive, they all told him brightly. You’re alive.

John Sailor LePere knew they were liars.

LePere didn’t stop at the buoy that marked where the wreck of the Teasdale lay. That morning, he continued down the shoreline of Outer Island, looking for the white launch. He didn’t know how the Fitzgerald Shipping Company had found out about the dives, but it seemed clear to him now that they were worried. In the rough water east of the island, there were no boats, but in the small bay near the lighthouse, LePere spotted a number of pleasure craft. None appeared to be the white launch. When he was satisfied, he headed out to the wreck. Alone and with the water so rough, he had a difficult time tying up to the buoy once he’d reached it. He suited up and spent a final moment checking the lake. Except for the Apostle Islands, the horizon was empty. He could see waves sending up spray as they crashed against Outer Island’s rocky shore, but the white launch was nowhere in sight. LePere figured they probably thought no one in his right mind would dive on a day like that.

He went over the side and followed the buoy line that was drawn taut by the pull of the boat above. Under the surface, the water was calm and everything was quiet. LePere descended, switching on his Ikelite as the sunlight diminished. He listened to his own breathing and to the steady spill of his bubbles. At seventy feet, an eelpout swam through the light, winding its body in the direction of the Apostles.