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paddled until he came to a cove. The tide was low. A good thing if a beach was given to rips and hard currents, a bad thing if the sea lay shallow over reefs.
    “Do you deceive me?” he shouted at the calm waters.
    Daughter raised up and looked over the edge of the boat. “’Ceive me?” she echoed.
    Water Gourd felt his lips curl into a smile, the first since the Bear-god warriors had attacked his village. He pulled the girl to sit between his knees and paddled the boat with strong strokes toward the shore. It moved easily, and in the shallows, Water Gourd could see that only sand and water plants lay beneath the surface. He did not stop paddling until the bow of the boat was well up on the beach, then he slowly unbent his old man legs and climbed out. Daughter raised her hands to him, so he lifted her, set her down on the beach, and motioned her away from the boat.
    The boat was heavy, nearly impossible for an old man to drag, but he heaved and shoved and took advantage of the lift of small waves until even the stern was beyond reach of the sea. He sat down until his strength returned, then he and Daughter began to explore the land. They found a freshwater stream where they washed themselves. After refilling the empty water gourds, the old man lay belly down on the river bank, extended an arm into the water, and lay still and quiet until a fish swam over his fingers. With one deft movement Water Gourd flipped it to the shore, setting Daughter to chortle with delight. Though it was a freshwater fish, he did not bother to cook it. Why risk a fire? He sliced it thin, and they ate it raw. He gave Daughter the eyes, and watched with longing as she swallowed them, but he saved the cheeks for himself. A fair trade, more than fair, he reasoned.
    They gathered sea urchins in tide pools until Daughter’s blanket bulged with them, and they picked water plants: dulce and ribbon kelp and nori.
    That night, after finding no sign of any village, not even a path or trail, they returned to the boat. Water Gourd placed several fist-sized stones in the bow—something of the earth to hold the boat ashore, so any sea-longings it possessed would be counteracted by the need of the rocks to stay on land. He stowed his water gourds, tying them in place in the stern, and set the sea urchins and plants in the bow. Then he made a bed for himself and Daughter in the center of the boat, the cedar walls close about them, the splintery bottom cushioned with beach grass.
    The storm came suddenly. Wind and rain wrenched them from their dreams. Water Gourd considered tipping the boat belly up, but the storm cut at them from all sides—the rain coming from north, then south, and turning again. So even if he could tip the boat completely over—if he had the strength to do such a thing—the sea might rise and flood them.
    Daughter began to cry, and he wrapped her in his arms, felt the warmth of her as comfort. For a time he sang songs, but he doubted she could hear him over the rage of the winds, and finally, his throat tight and sore, he stopped.
    The rain soaked through their deerskin blankets, and he began to shake. The clattering of his teeth made his head ache. Then suddenly the boat lurched, and he knew the storm had taken them. He leaned forward over Daughter, flipped the largest blanket over the heap of sea urchins, and weighted it down with the rocks. He fumbled for the jar of dried meat, settled it under his buttocks, an uncomfortable seat, but better than losing their food. He split one gourd and used it to bail out the water that had begun to slap into the boat from the sea.
    Daughter clung to him, her arms stretching to reach around his waist. With each wave that broke over them, Water Gourd was sure the boat would be swamped, but it managed to stay afloat. He bailed until his arms were heavy as stone, until an ache burned at the center of his chest, until finally he knew nothing but pain, fear, and darkness.
    When day came, clouds lay