The Old Cannery

Chapter One

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, patting my pet parakeet, when my watch buzzed. Without looking at it, I figured it was eleven o'clock in the morning. I mean, what else would it be, if it had been ten o'clock an hour ago? People took convenience for granted sometimes.

Then I remembered it was low tide. I'd been meaning to go down to the beach across the street at low tide for a few weeks now, since we'd moved here. The people who lived in this house before us said that you could find old glass bottles buried in the sand at low tide, because the land used to belong to a fish cannery "back in the day". I wanted to find one. Nancy, the woman who lived here, showed me a few she'd found, and they were gorgeous. One was even lavender purple, my favorite color.

And I didn't have much time. Today at least, but I didn't have the patience to wait until low tide tomorrow.

I stuck my finger under my parakeet's belly forcing him to step onto it. Quickly covering his wings to prevent him from flying away, I walked over to his cage on my dresser and tucked him inside. He gave a soft chirp but then became fascinated with eating and I tiptoed out of the room, leaving him to his seeds.

Two months ago, me, my mom, and my dad lived in Rhode Island. My aunt lived in Michigan. But then a bunch of stuff happened that I'm still not quite clear on and we all had to move to a small seaside cottage in some tiny town in northeastern Maine. Don't get me wrong, the cottage is, like, the best place in the world, and I love being so close to the ocean. But still, we moved to a new state, away from all my friends and everything.

Well, I guess I'll just have to get used to it. It's not like I can't talk to them on the phone or anything.

And I had to get to the beach.

"Going down to the water!" I shouted, not waiting for a response. I left the cottage and stepped onto the deck, pulling on my water shoes and grabbing my big orange inner tube (why not?). I sprinted down the wooden steps. I ran past the swan-shaped driftwood on the lawn, over the sandy dirt road that was always deserted, past the stands of shimmering quaking aspen, into the meadow.

The grass in the meadow was dry and crunchy, due to its proximity to the salty ocean, yet surprisingly green. I loved it. There were grasshoppers that exploded from the grass at every step, and bees that pollinated the many flowers planted by the house's previous owners.

But really, I was on a mission. The glass bottles were calling to me. Sort of. Like, I'm not a telepath or anything weird like that. Just, you know. Old bottles from an old cannery do sound pretty cool.

I walked toward the rocks, and stopped to stare out at the far-away shoreline. Phew. Still low-tide. I picked up my pace, walking and walking toward the pile of stones that used to be the foundation of the cannery. Now it belonged to the seagulls and cormorants. And their poop.

But then I stopped. From the deck, it looked like this seaweed path thing went all the way to the stones. In reality, there was a strip of ocean thirty feet wide between it and where I stood. No problem. I could just wade across. It wasn't that far. I began to walk across, stepping on the highest points there were. The cold shot through my legs. It was frigid. Unfortunately, the rocks were covered in barnacles. And unfortunately, they got lower and lower until -

It was way too deep.

I made my way back, awkwardly, to the sand where I left my inner tube. I was so glad I brought it. I tossed it in the deepest section closest to me and laid down on my stomach on it. I began to paddle toward the rocks, seaweed sloshing around my arms and legs. Ew.

Finally I got to the rocks. They were way taller than I'd thought. Like, way way taller. And covered in a lot more guano than I'd previously believed possible. And very, very impossible to climb.

Sigh.

Then something caught my eye. To the left of where I bobbed in the water, there was a gap in the rocks. If I stood on part of the pile, I could enter it. It looked big enough.

So I did. I rolled over on the inner tube and grabbed onto the rock. White flakes peeled off and stuck to my hand. But I didn't notice. Or at least, I tried as hard as I could to not think about germs as I made my way into the opening.

It was a cave. Around four feet wide, seven feet long, and the ceiling about six feet tall. Interesting. Then I yelped. What was that white thing next to my foot? I bent down to take a closer look when I realized it was a sea star. Cool! I breathed a sigh of relief, that it was only a sea star. But my heart was pounding.

Why did I feel like I was being watched?