The Geography of Water
By Mary Emerick; University of Alaska Press; $16.95; 186 pages; paperback
I remember once, a few years ago, camping out by Fourth of July Beach during a spring storm, waves crashing above my head, sand in my eyes, the wind so strong I had to wrap my arms around a rock to keep upright. Who could forget the smells of water and salt and rot — and after it calmed down, the thrill of kicking off my shoes and standing barefoot in the water, waves slamming my knees, the punishing coldness and the exhilarating pull of the tide?
Mary Emerick's first novel, "The Geography of Water," captures the same sense of wonder and vulnerability, the same beautifully infused violence of a storm followed by the fierce complexities that fill its wake.
Emerick, an avid outdoorswoman who lives in northeastern Oregon, spent seven years in Sitka as a kayak guide, traveling around the Baranof and Chichagof Island coastlines. She weaves the memory of those wild places into a lyrical world of water, hope and harsh realities in her coming-of-age story.
Narrated by 18-year-old Winchester (yes, she's named after a rifle), the book follows the challenges of a family running a hunting lodge on Never Summer Bay, a fictitious remote island in Southeast Alaska.
Winnie's life is dominated by the weather, the landscape and her father's violent temper. In an early scene, she talks about comparing battle scars with her mother while bathing in a claw-foot tub.
"When I asked, she said that men had anger hidden deep inside, like lava at the earth's hidden heart. Women had to be careful, she said. It was up to us to keep the peace."
Winnie struggles with her need to escape, knowing that she'll have to leave her mother behind. She eventually heads to Floathouse Bay, where she spends quiet days at an isolated refuge, repairing fishing nets and checking traps with two gentle Vietnam vets.
"They belonged out here. They were part of this place. I wanted to learn their secrets."
When she gets word that her mother has gone missing, Winnie returns to Never Summer Bay. What follows is a journey through the watery landscape of truth, redemption and, ultimately but not easily, forgiveness.
A lyrical paradox
The plot of "The Geography of Water" flows organically and is, for the most part, Alaska-believable. Yet the book doesn't read as a narrative so much as a poem gathered inside a narrative. As with any good poem, it's what Emerick leaves unsaid, what lurks in the white spaces between her words, that adds power and metaphor to ordinary exchanges.
"In the river, the salmon were dying as they swam. Driven by an invisible force, they pushed upstream, bumping against my boots with sightless, milky eyes."
Which leads to the book's nagging weakness and, paradoxically, its biggest strength:
Emerick's prose is so lyrical, the rhythm so lulling, that it's impossible not to read sentences out loud, marveling at the sound, the feel, the texture. The beauty of the language threatens to overpower the story.
But it is a small quibble, and one most readers will likely forgive.
"I had loved my father at times, despite the flashes of anger in the night, like lightning, unexpected and terrible, but gone the next day, nearly forgotten."
"The Geography of Water" is a haunting blend of shadows and secrets, a story about Alaska, yes, but also about how wild places can dig down inside the blood, dare us to dive down and discover our own hidden stories.
Cinthia Ritchie is an Alaska writer and author of "Dolls Behaving Badly." She blogs about writing and running at cinthiaritchie.com.
Excerpt:
When my father left on his hunting trips, my mother and I would come out of our hiding places. We would scamper like mice through the empty lodge, throwing open the windows to erase the smell of men. We would fill up the damp air with our own voices, losing little pieces of our hearts with doomed Janis Joplin, the volume knob turned up past 10. We would surrender like drowning to afternoon sleep in beds that were not our own. We would eat, finally, sitting down like normal people, peaches sliding down our throats, each swallow almost too sweet to bear. We would stretch ourselves big in a world that usually forced us to be small.
Always we were as close as sisters. We shared everything, even the oversized claw-foot tub that my father had shipped on the barge from Seattle. I knew that some would think it was strange, a mother and daughter so close. The clients told us it was so. They shot searching glances at us, as if we were very different from them, living here miles from any other family. Perhaps we were. We had no barometer with which to compare.
But my mother and I were just alike. We even looked alike, the same bright hair and light eyes, no trace of my father's darkness about me. We were twins, almost. Except for one thing: I was stronger than she was. My mother was like a candle, thin and bright. It would not take much to blow her out. "Next year, I'll be eighteen," I told her. "An adult. I could leave." I said this, but I felt cruel. The only way out was by floatplane or boat, how could she ever go?
All season long a parade of puffy men passed through the lodge, hunting clients. They were stiff in new rubber boots and creased Carhartts. They tracked in mud and dribbled Copenhagen on the rugs. They were from cities, places like Dallas and Pittsburgh.
My father served them brandy and courage. He told stories of near death in the mountains and on the sea: bear attacks, 60-foot falls from slippery ridges, and bivouacs in the fog. The men listened, drinking quickly. They laughed loudly and often to cover up their fear. Muggers, carjackers, they thought they knew. In this world, our world, they were blind. My father was the star they followed.