DRAFT CHAPTER ONE Steward Marina, Horton Island, west of Vancouver, Canada OWEN I sit on our dock, my toes trailing in the frigid May water, forty-nine kinds of bored. Nothing ever happens around here. It''s Dullsville without the ville. I''ve devised a punishment for parents who move to an island so small that it doesn''t even have a school. For starters, they should be wrapped in seaweed and left at low tide for jellyfish to sting and seagulls to guano-bomb. There''s no one close to my age on this entire three-mile-long, sea-locked lump of dirt and trees. I have to catch a water taxi (named "The Scholarship," ha ha) to the nearest island with a high school, where I get treated like a redneck just ''cause the kids on that island are thirty-nine kinds of bored. Since today is Saturday and the local Coast Guard officer is away, I leap up and move along the dock, scanning all dozen boats in our marina for one to joy-ride later this afternoon.

Then I can cruise around, swipe cans of beer from locked-up summer cabins and shoot fish with my airgun. Or step into Charlie Aitkens'' bull pasture and play chicken with Ruffian, his 2,000-pound beast with a bony head and mobster-size neck. One day I''m going to exit this rain-soaked smidgen of sod and really see the world. Have adventures. Cruise out of one of the Coast Guard academies with honors. Save dinghies in distress. Till then, all I can do to keep myself from going brain-dead is train my binoculars on passing ships and dream I''m escaping on them. Or play ring toss with life-ring buoys, which I''m actually pretty good at.

Just as I select a twenty-five-foot cabin cruiser on our dock as my getaway vehicle, my mother''s bullhorn voice sounds from above. "Owen! Ohhhhh-wen!" Her call is all but drowned out by the noise she''s making clanging the ship''s bell fastened to our house on the cliff above. "Luuuunch!" My runners squeak to a halt on a slimy board. Perfect. After lunch she and Dad have to catch a ferry to a plane. Which means I''ve got a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card. "Coming, Mom!" I sprint along the dock and count all 120 steps up to our house for the 1,120th time, no pause on any of them. I savour the burning in my calves, ''cause I''m all about fitness, as all future Coast Guard officers should be.

"So, Owen," my dad says, tugging on his beard as he clicks his suitcase shut, "you''ve read the list of stuff you need to do while we''re away?" "Replace those two rotting steps, swab the slime off the dock, change the oil on the two ketches and fuel up any customers who stop in." My parents own Steward Marina. It''s one of only four fine business establishments on this West Coast islet, along with the hardware store, bakery and general store. My current occupation is marina maintenance slave and sometime spy, and my goal is to be captain of a very large ship elsewhere. At the very least, I aspire to escape this worthless wart of woodland and become a wayward wanderer. Soon. "That''s my boy," Dad says like I''m ten instead of sixteen. Usually I''m mistaken for even older than I am, given my height and stylin'' soul-patch.

But parents have a way of shrinking you. Dad pushes the day''s newspaper at me. "Another ghost ship story. A condemned cattle freighter they bought from a scrap yard." He shakes his head and frowns. "What''s this world coming to?" "In Europe?" I ask as I take the paper from him and scan the story. Illegal immigrants from the Middle East and Africa have been washing up on Europe''s shores for a while, dead or alive depending on their ships, the weather that week and local rescue efforts. But the ghost-ship stories are the most haunting: immigrants paying for a berth on a boat that their handlers abandon mid-channel.

"Yeah, they locked up the passengers in the freighter''s animal pens, jammed the controls and took off in motorized lifeboats. So there was no pilot aboard as it tore across the Mediterranean at nine knots. Would''ve shipwrecked if the Coast Guard hadn''t eventually managed to board and evacuate it." "Twisted," I say. "And must''ve been a complicated job for the rescuers." "Yeah," Dad says grimly. "Be glad we live in Canada." "Stop being all doom-and-gloom, you two," Mom speaks up.

"So, Owen, chores, as we were discussing." "Chores," Dad echoes as he snatches the paper back with a smirk. "Yes, ma''am." I sit up straight. "Water the house plants and don''t have any wild parties." She sets plates and a pitcher of steaming hot chocolate on the table. "Awww. But I''ve invited all my friends over to drink and do drugs.

" If I had any friends on the island, that would worry her. It pains me that she knows it''s not even a possibility. They kind of made sure of that by moving here three years ago. Snatched me away from friends they didn''t like. "You''re certain you''re okay for an entire week?" she asks, leaning over to kiss my head as I duck. "We''ve never left you this long before. I feel kind of bad going with your dad and leaving you all on your own. Mrs.

Aitken isn''t far if you need anything, and I''ve frozen two casseroles--" "Mom, I''m fine. Enjoy the marina managers'' conference and bring me back some pictures of Miami." "You''re sure?" She glances at her suitcase by the door like she''s ready to unpack it and stay. I lift a sandwich from the platter and pour some hot chocolate into my mug. "You put marshmallows in the hot cocoa. You''re the best!" I''m laying it on so they''ll chill, but the truth is, I really do have a thing for hot cocoa. "One more thing, Owen," Dad says as he helps himself to a sandwich. "Yeah?" "Weather forecast is for a big storm tomorrow.

So take extra care--" "--securing all the boats for the clients who park ''em with us. Especially the boats I like," I tease. He tries to smile. So does Mom. But the word "storm" always conjures up unwelcome memories. It prompts all three of us to look out to the bay at the same time, and see patches of darkness in the shifting water. Shadows whose shapes differ for each of us. Just as quickly, we turn our gazes elsewhere--anywhere but to one another''s eyes.

We came all the way across the country to escape him. But he is out there still.