Written in Stone by Rosanne Parry Page B

time to see the shadow of an offshore rock before I lurched forward and struck my head on the gunwale. For a second, there was only the ring of the strike and the burst of white fireworks under my eyelids. When I sat up, black barnacle-speckled rocks towered over me. A split opened a little bit back from the bow. Cold seawater seeped into my canoe, and warm blood flowed down my face.
    I seized my paddle and pushed against the rock. My canoe dragged a few inches lower, breaking off barnacles as it went. The split lengthened, and water gurgled in.I scooted back in the boat to lift the bow. On the next wave, I shoved with my paddle again. A notch broke off the tip of it, but I was afloat.
    I back-paddled with all my strength, looking over my shoulder, winking blood out of my eye. Another roll and the side of my canoe struck a smaller rock. I saw that one coming and braced myself, and the canoe held. The water was ankle-deep and rising. I fought my boat backward out of the cluster of offshore rocks. By the time I made open water, my arms were shaking with fatigue, and the boat was almost half full. I grabbed the bailer and flung water out. The beach seemed a million miles away. My hands were cramped with cold, and the darkness of the deep water all around froze my heart. I’d never make it. Even if I could swim, I’d freeze before I made the shore. My shoulders slumped, and I gave in to shivering.
    A torpedo shape passed under my canoe. A sleek, dark head broke the surface one body length away. The seal stared at me with sorrowful brown eyes. A blink and he was gone, but he rose again on my other side and stared. The memory of my father’s voice came to me.
    “The whale will rise and rise again to offer his life.”
    Life.
    He was offering me life.
    I let the word throb in my head. Life.
    I took up my paddle and sat tall like a whaler. Thewind was against me, but the tide was in my favor. I clamped my chattering teeth shut and dug in. The seal ducked down, showed his tail, and disappeared. All the extra water made my boat heavy. I gained the beach by inches. I was drenched. The muscles of my arms and back burned. Finally, I could see the sand under the breakers. I rolled out into chest-deep water and walked my boat in. I was so exhausted when my feet hit level sand, I collapsed in a heap with the dead kelp.
    The October breeze got me on my feet. I tipped the water out of my canoe and searched for the tide line. A weathered beach log stuck out of the sand above the high-tide mark—the start of my shelter. I took the basket and food box out of the boat and stashed them by the log. My wet clothes sucked strength out of my body. I lifted the lid of the clothes basket. My things inside were dry.
    “God bless Aunt Loula and her watertight basket,” I whispered, and kicked off my wet things.
    The shabby, hand-me-down wool blouse and skirt never looked so good. I rubbed as much of the water as I could off my bare skin and then shivered into the dry clothes.
    The blankets were wet at both ends but dry in the middle because Grandpa had rolled them in an old cedar rain cape. I threw the cape over my shoulders and pulled on the fur mitts Henry had given me. When I sat withmy knees hugged to my chest, the cape made a warming tent that reached the sand. I shivered and rubbed my arms and legs to bring up the heat of my blood.
    When my hands were warm enough to move freely and my shivering slowed enough for a steady hand, I reached for the cut on the crown of my head. The wound was two fingers long, starting at the edge of my hairline above my left eye. The cut was spread open and bleeding, but not as fast as before. I probed it gently, feeling for splinters. There was nothing in the wound but the pillow of swelling underneath and the throb with each blood beat.
    I closed my eyes to concentrate and squeezed the edges of the cut together.
    “Skin wants to bond,” Grandma always said when she was tending a knife wound. “It just takes