by Michele Evans
At first glance, their torsos, sunburnt and tatted, looked like they reeked of cheap beer, sweat, tobacco, and danger. I watched my husband’s dark brown, almost black, eyes flicker to Stevie and Stella, our twins swaddled in matching safety orange vests first before sizing up the shirtless stranger and his sidekick boarding Onyx, wearing matching skull and crossbones tattoos, cutoff Levis, and soggy motorcycle boots.
In 2027, GRACE & GRAVITY will be edited and published by the Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Submissions for Volume 12: Grace in Justice are open through November 15th.
When I heard coughing coming from the water’s surface just moments before, my knee jerked and I frisbeed one of the twin’s neon ring buoys towards the capsized canoe and a pair of flailing arms. Without hesitation, I tossed the second ring when another set of arms emerged, fighting the purling waters trying to stay afloat.
“Oh, my god, Stephen, there are two of them,” I gulped.
Like our twins, this pair appeared small and helpless in the cove waters; but once they neared Onyx and stood up in the waist-high water to scale the rungs of our boat’s ladder, my mind feared the worst. What if they were they pretending to drown? What if they didn’t really need to be saved?
Earlier that morning Mother Nature gifted me perfect weather for the toddlers’ first boating. One would think sunny skies, mild temps, and a slight breeze should have been enough to quell the storm clouds swirling in my imagination; but it was relentless and stocked with a tank full of doubt. What if the boat trip messes up their nap schedule? What if the twins get too much sun? What if they get seasick?
“We’ll show them Pirate Point and Deer Island. They’ll love that,” was all Stephen said, his patient eyes filling the rearview mirror when I buckled our twins in their safety seats.
Deep down I knew he was right. Little Stevie would get a kick out of seeing the giant lifelike pirate that looks like he’s magically walking on water. And sweet Stella would be mesmerized by the family of deer on the abandoned island in the middle of the bay before showering us with questions like: “Mama, how deer get there? Dada, deer swim?” “Mama, can we keep one?”
When Onyx’s hull hit the bay earlier that morning, my breathing hitched, turning my world upside down for a moment. The glassy cove waters, so clean and clear, mirrored the cloudless sky above, making it hard to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins. This blending of the blues was throwing off my balance before our trip even started.
After rescuing the pair, Stephen and I tried to save their canoe by mooring it to our boat with rope. But like the strange pair now onboard, the weathered vessel had a mind of its own, swaying and swerving from side to side in the deceptively shallow waters before eventually flipping over, like it had imbibed the crushed beer cans now trailing Onyx’s rudders. Steering these men and their canoe towards the shoreline and to safety proved more dangerous than rescuing them. Hidden beneath the glassy waters, a muddy seabed, layered in sand and grit, lurking and lying in wait to attack our boat’s motor.
I was so focused on listening for the sound of gravel tickling the belly of Onyx I didn’t notice the lanky, shirtless stranger pull a machete from behind his back like it was a natural extension of his arm. He struck the twisted rope, fraying it before it snapped. Certain the resulting metallic twang would wake the sleeping twins, I shuffled closer to them. Stephen also tried, but was stopped by the armed canoer who adjusted his tightened grip on the serrated steel.
And just like that, more questions surfaced in my mind already fraught with worry. What if these modern-day pirates chop us up into tiny pieces? What if they kidnap our babies and sell them on the black market?
I could tell the toddlers, now wide-eyed and curious no longer cradled by the friction of wind and water, had so many questions about the newcomers. And yet somehow, they knew to be quiet and still while I gently stroked their tight curls and cheeks, chubby and sun kissed. The weaponed explorer noticed too and cleared his throat, breaking the silence—a sign, perhaps to his unarmed companion, who began to twist his body and reach for something hidden behind his back.
Stephen and I were out of time. I had to do something. Bury my fears. Be brave. Create a distraction. Knock the sidekick off balance and back into the bay. But he was shifty, and I was not ready for what he had hidden in his back pocket.
What if it’s another machete? What if it’s something worse? What if they harm Stephen first?
The sidekick held up a small disposable sandwich bag, slightly unsealed, with a cellphone floating inside.
“Um… you, ah, gotta phone I can use?” he asked.
Spying my straw beach bag next to the twins, he locked eyes with his partner, slightly shaking his head before inching closer to me and our only lifeline.
Clenching my teeth, I replied, “Ah, yeah, I’ll…I’ll…I’ll get it for you.”
There was no one nearby to hear our distress. No one to rescue us. No one to throw us a lifeline. No one to pull us to safety. I was still holding my iPhone when the short man grabbed it out of my hand. Wasting no time, he began punching numbers on the keypad screen, one after another. The twins’ eyes met mine just as the ringtone, a faint siren, fell silent. Stephen was at the helm, and I could tell he was still formulating a plan in his head to protect us. I closed my eyes, filled my lungs with salt air, and whispered one final prayer.
A voice answered the call.
“Mama?” he said.
Michele Evans, a fifth-generation Washingtonian (DC), is a writer, teacher, and adviser for Unbound, an award-winning Northern Virginia high school literary magazine. This Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Watering Hole fellow, and winner of the ASP Bulletin Poetry Contest studied at Smith College, King’s College London, and the Graduate School at the University of Maryland. Her poems have appeared in Artemis Journal, Maryland Literary Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, Welter Magazine, WPWH Writes, Yellow Arrow Journal, and elsewhere. This Watering Hole fellow and teacher consultant for the Northern Virginia Writing Project lives online at www. awordsmithie.com. purl, a 2025 nominee for the Maya Angelou Book Award, is her first full-length poetry collection (Finishing LIne Press).
