The ocean waves continued to crash below us, indifferent to the power of human revelations, while gulls called to each other in voices that sounded a little less mocking. I wanted to say something that would honor what Wes had just given me, butbefore I could find the words, my phone vibrated, the light buzzing startling us both.
I fumbled at extracting the device from my pocket, hands clumsy with cold. Dad's name appeared on the screen.
Tom Callahan:Stay put. We've got eyes on you. Help on the way.
I held the phone so Wes could read the words and whispered, "Oh, my fucking God. He's coming."
The response was quintessentially Dad—economical, practical, and designed to convey maximum information with minimum drama. It was the calm competence of someone who'd spent decades pulling people out of situations they couldn't escape alone.
Wes read the message twice. "Eyes on you," he repeated, scanning the horizon for signs of approaching help. "Probably means the Coast Guard. Your dad's got connections."
The knowledge that rescue was imminent should have prompted celebration. Instead, we settled back against the cliff wall in companionable silence, neither of us eager to break whatever spell had been cast by our forced proximity and shared vulnerability.
A fishing boat appeared on the horizon, too distant to make out details, but it moved with a purposeful trajectory. Behind it, another vessel followed—larger, with the clean lines that marked it as Coast Guard instead of a commercial fishing boat.
"There," Wes pointed toward the approaching vessels. "Your dad doesn't mess around when it comes to marine rescue."
The wind continued to toss our hair and tug at our jackets, but the threat was gone. I pulled out my phone again, thumbs moving across the screen to compose a response:
Eric:Can see boats approaching. Thank you.
The message went through immediately this time as if the cellular gods had decided we'd suffered enough technological frustration for one morning. Within seconds, Dad's reply appeared:
Tom Callahan:Twenty minutes. Sit tight.
The boats grew larger as they approached, their engines creating a distant rumble that vibrated through the water and up through the stone beneath us. I saw figures moving on the Coast Guard vessel's deck.
Wes watched. "They'll probably use a basket and haul us up one at a time. Standard procedure for cliff rescue when the terrain's too unstable for climbing."
The fishing boat reached the base of the cliff first, maneuvering close enough to the rocks to see Dad's distinctive profile in the wheelhouse. He raised a hand in acknowledgment when he spotted us.
I returned the wave with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary.
Wes lifted his hand in greeting. "He'll coordinate with the Coast Guard. Make sure everything goes smoothly."
We watched the rescue unfold, no longer stranded but not yet saved. The urgency that drove our morning dissolved.
Wes exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the boats below. "Never thought I'd say this, but I think I'm going to miss this ledge."
"Yeah?" I nudged his shoulder with mine.
He turned to look at me, and his voice was rough at the edges. "It's the first time I haven't wanted to run."
Neither of us spoke after that. We simply sat, side by side, with our backs pressed to the granite, as the rescue basket descended toward us and the sea wind tangled our hair.
Chapter twenty-two
Wes
The sound of the boat motors grew more substantial. Salt spray misted across our faces as I squinted toward the water below.
Eric reached for the thermos at the exact moment I did, our fingers colliding over the metal surface. His hand was cold, knuckles scraped raw from our fall.
"Drink," I said, pushing the vessel toward him. "You need it more than I do."
"We both need it." He unscrewed the cap, steam rising in thin wisps. "Arguing about who's most hypothermic seems counterproductive when our rescue's actually happening."
The boats drew close enough to identify figures moving on the deck. "You two about ready to come back to civilization?" It was Chief Callahan from a bullhorn below.
