I looked out into a fog shrouded bay. Behind me rain dripped off misshapen cedar and arbutus clinging to a steep shore. A rickety dock extending from the tip of a rocky outcropping. Something was tied alongside. As I approached, I could see it was a small dugout canoe. The rocks were slippery, and I gingerly picked my way over them to the dock. I looked down at the body in the boat.
It was a woman, shrouded in a long black dress which covered her feet. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and strands of long hair fanned out around her head. Her face was unnaturally white, and I realized she was wearing a mask, carved of bleached driftwood. The nose was hawk-like and the mouth was a round O. There were no eyes.
I seem to know who she was, but no name came to mind. For some reason I thought the dugout was not secure there. I should haul it up on the island. Leaning down, I untied the single frayed painter, and dragged the canoe over to a gap in the rocks. As I tried to haul it up it overturned, and the body spilled out, the arms spread out and it slowly sank, face up, into the clear water. The mask floated off and I could see the face, distorted by the rippled ocean.
Without hesitation, I dived in.