Two days later we were standing on the shore looking down at the track in the sand.

The decision to push on ahead, further North, was based on Gray's belief the Hudson Bay Post was somewhere ahead, but that depended upon if we were even on Mattagami Lake. At this point I had more faith in Jimmy's silent and unwavering determination to continue on course than on Gray's treatise of where we must be. The body of water we were paddling was a long widening of the river, exposed to the relentless north wind, so strong that many times we would look at a rock or a stick in the shoreline clay and, despite our best effort, were unable to see the canoes making any noticeable progress. And other times, if one looked a little higher up the bank to where the slope flattened and the clay became sand, one could still see the impression of the creature's track. No one felt inclined to rest by pulling onto the shore. While it should have motivated us to put even greater effort into our paddle strokes, I felt that each inch of progress was only bringing us closer to an inevitable encounter with whatever beast made the track. I looked across to Jimmy, analyzing the paddle strokes he used to combat the fierce headwind and to seek comfort in his expressionless face. 

The wind was only increasing. The cold front we had seen from shore was now upon us. Waves were splashing against the side of the canoes and water, picked up by the wind, was spraying into the vessels, wetting paddler and gear alike. An icy rain stung any exposed skin. Wet sleet was coming, not from the sky, but from down the lake, travelling horizontally, as though the frozen rain was intentionally thrown into our faces. There was no shelter from the elements; to paddle closer to shore only exposed the craft to greater turbulence, and to the mysterious line in the sand that mocked our journey.

Finally, after hours of a futile struggle against the force of the wind, Gray gave the order to cross the lake. "We can get protection over there lads." At this point, the far shore was a half mile across, but the fetch to the north was uninterrupted for miles. The cold wind funnelled down the long, narrow lake and I braced myself for what I knew would be a difficult crossing.

Gray steered the bow of his canoe to an angle to the wind and dug in. Wally, in his bow, reached forward and pulled the water towards him, fighting to keep the canoe from turning downwind and becoming broadside to the waves. The other canoes followed. I switched my paddle to the upwind side and dug in hard. In my bow Silvester flipped his blade to his right and grunted a long pull. We began the crossing.

Jimmy's canoe was ahead of the party by five lengths, still following the shore. Despite the fact  he was paddling solo and had most of the heavy gear, he had positioned the packs in such a way that the wind, when it blew from one side, helped keep him moving straight without using correction strokes. He made it look easy, and when he turned and saw Gray had begun to cross the lake, he broke the rhythm of his stroke to raise his hands high above him and looked up to the sky. Jimmy was a difficult creature to understand, so one was never certain of the meaning his gestures; he may have thrown his arms up in protest, or in question, in delight, in praise, or perhaps for an entirely different reason. Then he lowered his head and continued his course along the shoreline.

Now four canoes, eight souls, were tossed relentlessly by the black water. Away from the shore, the waves were spaced farther from each other, but their height was magnified. The waves rolled, breaking in a long, unending froth. We would try to steer the canoe directly into an oncoming breaker to keep the canoe out of the worst of it, but with each crash, more spray and splash entered the vessel. I was kneeling on the floor of the canoe, legs braced against the hull, narrow ribs digging into my knees, my rump supported on the seat, trying to keep the vessel balanced as water sloshed across my knees, from one leg to the other.

We made it half-way across when I saw Gray's boat leave the water. It appeared to me as though the canoe was lifted from the surface. It was thrown clear out of the lake. The boat flew up, not being pulled from above as much as pushed from below, as though some Leviathan or Behemoth had ascended from the dark depths, grabbed hold of the hull from beneath, and tossed it into the sky. Wally threw his paddle and grabbed the gunwales for his life as Gray, still attempting to brace the canoe with his paddle, no longer found water under his blade, and with a shout, was thrown from the vessel before the canoe flipped and landed right side up again on the lake surface.

It happened so fast. And at the same instant, a wall of white foam and froth smashed into the side of my canoe. Somehow, in the horror of seeing Gray and Wally thrown into the lake, I must have allowed the bow of my canoe to turn downwind, for I exposed the broadside of my boat to the oncoming rush of water. I tried to lean to the left, downwind to balance the canoe, but between the slosh of water already inside my boat and Silvester in my bow, hands gripping the gunwales and leaning to the right, I watched the upwind gunwale slip beneath the black tongue of water and the white teeth of the wave bite down on our tiny canoe. 

My first sensation was how the warm the water felt. It was a relief to finally be out of the cold wind, and surrounded by peace and silence under the water. The war against nature and spirit that was raging overhead was now only an unpleasant memory as I sank slowly, enjoying, at last, a calm warmth. The second sensation was the burn of fear when I realized that I was sliding into the depths and soon, the air in my lungs would no longer sustain me. I would open my mouth and inhale death. I kicked my legs and flailed my arms, reaching upward to the surface. I fought against the pull of saturated wool and heavy leather, of cotton and cloth, the weight which held me under. But I didn't panic. It was more like I was watching all this happening to someone else. I could see the poor soul's struggle and I knew he should be panicking, for the outcome seemed clear: all his thrashing would not stop him from sinking to his death. What I was feeling was peaceful. I wished for the freedom to swim naked. I wanted to swim in the big eddy on the river at home, where the water is always warm and the sun heats the rocks on the shore, and now I'm lying on the bedrock, eyes closed, feeling the gradual burn of a summer afternoon on my skin, Michael beside me. I wonder where the dog is and I wonder if he has already headed home because mother will be cooking dinner and I am so hungry.

Then my hand hit something hard. I swirled and grasped onto a bar or a branch above my head. I pulled against it and came crashing to the surface. I screamed a gulp of air and my lungs burned with life again.

But I was in darkness. My arms were supported by something solid just beneath the water's surface. I had space to breathe, but I was consumed in blackness. No light entered my sphere. I reached up. Inches above my head, my hand felt the hard ceiling of my prison. I  followed the cavity that surrounded me, feeling the curve of a ridge, of bone. I ran my hand down the cavity, fingers tickling the inside of ribs. I was in the belly of the beast.

A new breath of air filled me and my senses cleared. I pieced it together: I remember the wave, our capsizing, the overturned canoe—it now makes sense. I had surfaced directly underneath the canoe. I was holding onto the thwart and breathing from the air pocket in the overturned hull. And it hit me I was cold. Really cold.

I pushed upward trying to right the canoe, but only sunk deeper. I ducked underwater and emerged outside the hull. Grasping onto the upside-down canoe, I pulled the boat, hand to hand until I reached the prow and wrapped my hands over the boat, keeping my head above water. Only then, when I was assured of my own safety, did I begin to survey the scene. Between the walls of grey water and white foam that splashed over me, I could discern the shapes of boats and gear bobbing in the waves. With the rise of each wave I scanned the lake. I counted four canoes, three, including mine, were overturned, one was upright but without anyone in it. It had been blown far downwind. There were shouts of men, other survivors.

"Silvester, where are you?" I shouted.

"I'm okay." 

His voice came from the other end of my canoe. He pushed the boat to one side and I saw his head in the water. Seeing how I straddled the canoe with my arms, he did the same on the opposite prow of our boat. His face was without colour and he had lost his hat. Wet air hung in his eyes.

"Do you see the others?" I asked.

He turned and looked up the lake and counted. "I see five—no wait—six. We all made it!"

I shivered. My hands were cramping, my teeth clattering. The cold water, although warmer than the air, was sucking the heat from me. We all may have been saved from drowning, but the cold would be our enemy now.

"Let's see if we can swim the canoe to the others," Silvester shouted over the waves.

I began to kick my feet. The progress was slow but the movement warmed me. The others, it seemed, had a similar idea, for before long, we had assembled together a flotsam raft of man and baggage and boat. Gray and Wally were without a canoe and struggled to swim using only their personal packs for flotation, which provided very little buoyancy. They looked relieved to reach the three remaining canoes. Theirs, presumably the one that had remained upright, had been blown far out of reach.

I struggled to try and right one of the canoes and, after a time and with the help of a well-timed wave, managed to turn the canoe over. But with the hull still filled with water, I was unable to get a man back into the canoe without it overturning again. After a number of failed attempts, Gray told me to stop.

"We need to save our energy. Try and push for the shore."

And so our island of floating debris, pushed by the wind and the waves and by men shivering and shaking, working together by the kicking of feet and the scooping of hands, slowly propelled the three canoes and eight men toward the shore which, I knew, was an impossible distance away. We left the packs to the fate of the lake.