Irene shivered, her teeth chattering, her wet clothing a kind of wick, something to chill and guide the wind, nothing more. And the water was very nearly freezing, a new shock every time it hit.

Their property came into view, three-quarters of an acre of waterfront looking toward the mountain and head of the lake, where the Kenai River fed from the glacier. Forest at the back of the property but also smaller growth in front, blueberry and alder thickets, wildflowers and grasses.

Gary aimed for the rocky shore. No beach, no sand or small pebbles. Big rounded rocks. Snags of wood on either side, waves breaking, and Gary didn’t slow at all, came in at full speed. Irene yelled out for him to slow down, but then she just held on, braced a foot against the ramp, and they hit. The logs on top slid forward and Irene moved her foot just in time. Jesus, Gary, she said.

But Gary wasn’t paying her any attention. He tilted the engine up, climbed forward over logs, and hopped into shallow water, about ten feet from shore. Help me lower the gate, he said. The rain and wind dying down, so at least she could hear. She climbed over the front, sank to her knees, over the tops of her boots, cold water, the rocks very slick beneath, and helped him undo the latches.

As she released the final one, the gate sprung at them, under pressure from the logs. Whoa, Gary said, but neither of them was hurt and they caught the ramp and lowered it, the waves breaking against their thighs and flooding the boat now from the open bow. They weren’t far enough onto the shore.

We have to unload fast, Gary said, and I need to get the engine running for the bilge pump. So he climbed over logs to the stern, tilted the motor down, pulled the cord, switched on the pump. Time to hustle, he said, as he rushed to the bow. He grabbed a log and walked backward. Just grab your own log and drag it ashore.

So Irene grabbed a log and pulled hard. Her feet cold in the water and her entire body chilled, her stomach starting to hurt from being cold and then going to work.

The boat’s already sinking, she yelled to Gary. The bilge pump wasn’t keeping up. The boat was flooding too quickly from the bow, slogging back and forth in the waves.

Shit, Gary said. Let’s put the gate up.

They latched the gate in a hurry, then he hopped aboard, the back end sitting very low, every third or fourth breaking wave dumping in some water from its crest, and he gunned the motor full throttle to jam the boat closer to shore. Irene could hear the bow scrape over rocks. It moved about a foot and then stopped. The stern tipped lower, though, too, because of the angle, and more water came in. Damn it, Gary yelled, and he grabbed the bailing bucket, throwing fast to get ahead of the waves, bending and springing up and bending again, throwing gallons at a time. Irene didn’t know what to do except watch. No second bucket or room enough back there. But she climbed onto the bow, in case her weight in front might help tip the boat forward.

Gary dark and drenched, breathing hard and yelling out on the full buckets from the strain. The smoke from the outboard blowing over him, bilge pump spitting, waves breaking over the back. Irene knew he was frightened now, and she wanted to help him, but she could see, also, that he was making it, that the stern was rising higher, the waves dumping less water each time. You’re doing it, Gary, she yelled. The stern’s coming up. You’re going to make it.

He was exhausted, she knew. The bucketfuls slowing, and sometimes his throw was short and some would land in the boat. I can take a turn, she yelled, but he just shook his head and kept dipping the bucket and throwing until finally the waves were slapping against the transom but not breaking over. He stopped then, dropped the bucket and bent over the outboard to vomit into the lake.

Gary, Irene said, and she wanted to comfort him but didn’t want to add weight to the stern. The bilge pump clearing out the remaining water but taking some time. Gary, she said again, are you all right, honey?

I’m okay, he finally said. I’m okay. I’m sorry. This was a stupid idea.

It’s okay, she said. We’ll be okay. We’ll just unload the rest of these and then go home.

Gary slumped over the motor a while, then turned the engine and pump off, climbed forward slowly, and kneeled on logs next to her in the bow. She gave him a hug and they stayed like that a few minutes, holding each other as the wind picked up and rain came down heavier again. They had not held each other like this for a very long time.

I love you, Gary said.

I love you too.

Well, Gary said, meaning time to move on. Irene had hoped the moment might extend. She didn’t know how everything had changed. In the beginning, she had slept with an arm and a leg over him, every night. They had spent Sundays in bed. They had hunted together, footsteps in sync, bows held ready, listening for moose, watching for movement. The forest a living presence then, and they a part of it, never alone. But Gary had stopped bowhunting. Too worried about money, using the weekends to work, no more Sundays in bed. In the beginning, Irene thought. There is no such thing as in the beginning.

They left the gate latched and each grabbed another log, pulled it over the bow. The wind accelerating, coming in blasts, the rain spiking into their eyes if they looked toward the lake. Irene sneezed, then blew her nose by holding a finger to one nostril, wiped off with the back of her hand. Getting sick already.

A long time to finish the logs, moving slowly now, both tired. Gary dragged some of Irene’s logs a bit farther from the water. But finally the boat was unloaded and light enough they could pull it ashore. They leaned against the bow, their backs to the wind and lake, and looked at their land.

We should have done this thirty years ago, Gary said. Should have moved out here.

We were on the shore, Irene said. On the lake, and easier to get to town, easier for the kids and school. It wouldn’t be possible to have kids out here.

It would have been possible, Gary said. But whatever.

Gary was a champion at regret. Every day there was something, and this was perhaps what Irene liked least. Their entire lives second-guessed. The regret a living thing, a pool inside him.

Well, we’re out here now, Irene said. We’ve brought the logs, and we’ll be building the cabin.

My point is that we could have been here thirty years ago.

I get your point, Irene said.

Well, Gary said. His lips tight, and he was staring ahead into an alder thicket, stuck in there, unable to work his way out of the sense that his life could have been something else, and Irene knew she was a part of this great regret.

Irene tried to rise above, tried not to get caught in this. She looked at the property, and it really was beautiful. Slender white birch along the back portion, bigger Sitka spruce, a cottonwood and several aspen. The land had some contour, several rises, and she could see where the cabin would go. They’d put a deck out front, and on nice evenings, they’d watch the sun set on the mountain, golden light. This could all work out.

We can do this, Irene said. We can build a nice cabin here.

Yeah, Gary finally said. Then he turned away from the property, looked into the wind and rain. Let’s push off.

So they pushed the boat free and climbed over the bow. Gary at the engine and Irene in the bottom of the boat, hugging her knees, trying to get warm. The way back not as bad, the waves behind them, the square gate in the bow above the waterline now, the boat no longer a barge. They rolled a bit on each wave, but no slamming, no spray. Irene’s teeth chattering again.

A long way from the island to the campground. Gary going slow, the bilge pump working. The campground and truck came into view finally and he cut the motor, landed on the beach beside the ramp. The waves pushing the stern up and down and slewing it to the side.

We could skip the trailer, Gary said. The waves are too big here. It’ll be a nightmare. We could just pull the boat onto the beach a ways and tie it to a tree.

So they did that and were home in minutes. So close, and they’d been freezing for so long. Pointless, Irene thought.

Gary took a quick hot shower, and then Irene ran a hot bath. Painful to sit down into it, her fingers and toes, especially, gone partially numb. The heat delicious, though, surrounding her. She sank into it and closed her eyes, found herself crying carefully, without sound, her mouth underwater. Stupid, she told herself. You can’t have what no longer exists.