Page 12 of The Chaperones

I wait as everyone takes stock of their stuff. Sure enough, one camper gasps, nudging her partner that they forgot their fuel. He jogs toward the ramp where Dustin twirls it above his head.

When he returns, I start in on the speech I’ve given so many times I can recite it without thinking. Sam goes in for the ranger dad jokes—the emergencies aren’t allowed on this island, don’t be a bigger asshole than the ravens sort of refrain—but the few times I’ve tried to mimic his humor, it hasn’t landed. The sidearm has something to do with it. My gender too. So, I stick to a matter-of-fact presentation of the rules: Stay away from the cliff’s edges, the soil is looser than it looks. Put all your food in the lockers—here Sam would joke, All the food you want to see again, exaggerating the island foxes’ Machiavellian scheming to steal your food and the ravens’ dexterity to unzip your bags. Instead, I explain that when the ravens and foxes eat the food, it makes them sick, so when we protect our food, we’re also protecting the animals. I remind them that there are no fires on the island other than camping stoves, that if they need to smoke, they can do it on the beach. Quiet time starts at ten, although everyone is asleep by nine, what we call island midnight. Pack out everything you bring to the island, including all trash, and leave everything you didn’t. Here, Sam would joke, No foxes brought home in backpacks. Instead, I tell them that everything here has existed for the past ten thousand years and we want to make sure it stays here for another ten thousand. There are spouts of potable water by the Visitor Center and one at each loop. I remind them not to brush their teeth or use soap near the water spigots because it will attract bees and not to throw anything except toilet paper into the toilets. “We use these giant vacuum cleaners to clean the toilets, and if an apple core gets stuck in it, we have to reach with our hands into the vacuum and clean it out.” I shudder for emphasis. “It’s not my favorite part of the job.” While this may be overkill, even with the warning, there’s always a plastic water bottle or a beer can in the toilet.

“The service is spotty on the island. There’s Wi-Fi at the Visitor Center”—I point to the white stucco building down the road, behind the bathrooms—“and reception at the end of the pier.” It’s spotty there, too, but I don’t say this. The idea of no service tends to make campers nervous, even though, five hours from now, they won’t be thinking about their social media posts and email. “Make sure you know what time your boat leaves because it will leave without you.”

I scrutinize the visitors, trying to gauge who might be a problem. It’s easy to tell the couples here to repair their relationships, those newer ones testing their compatibility. The friends who come to bond and end up fighting. The corporate retreats that expose addictions and infidelities. You can’t keep your life on the mainland. More than cliff edges, more than four-legged and winged thieves, it’s what we bring with us across the channel that’s the most dangerous. I clock a group of three twentysomething men who make me uneasy. Groups of men tend to be loud and drunken. Arrogant. I keep my distance as best I can and refer any issues to whichever interpretive ranger is on duty with me. They are quick to step in. I’m not sure if this is a general sense of chivalry or if they intuit something I haven’t told them, why men like this make me so uncomfortable.

No one can leave their pasts off the island. Not even me.

“I also need to remind you that we aren’t on state land anymore. This is a national park, and I’m a federal officer of the law. I’m here to protect you, not to write you up for a drug charge, so let’s make that our common goal, all right?

“Most of all,” I cue, to indicate I’m reaching the end of my belabored yet requisite speech. For most visitors, this is the only interaction they’ll have with me. Others are eager for my expertise or a hiking companion. “Please have fun. You’re in one of the most remote and beautiful places this country has to offer.”

As I scan the crowd to see if anyone has questions, I trip on a woman with auburn hair. Her energy’s different from the other mothers’. More electric. Her green eyes bore into me, signifying that she’s listened to everything I’ve said. I don’t realize I’m staring until she smiles and says “Thank you” so sincerely, I blush.

She tucks her hair behind her ears, and her sleeve slips down her arm to reveal a mesh grid of diamonds snaking her wrist.

“Nice bracelet,” I tell her, even though I’ve never been one for diamonds. I can’t say the same for the ravens. “Just be careful with that. The ravens have been known to mine bags for far less.”

She twists it on her wrist. “Don’t worry. I never take it off. It’s going to the grave with me.”

“Mom,” one of the girls dressed for a rave whines, crossing her legs. “I have to pee.”

She waves goodbye to me, then trots off to escort her daughter to the bathroom.

The groups have already started to disperse, heading past the old farm equipment to the Visitor Center or straight to the trails and the campgrounds beyond.

Sam appears at my side. “How’s it seeming?”

“Should be an easy night,” I say, watching the twentysomething men head toward the lower loop. They kick a hacky sack between them, more hippie than frat boy, and I feel myself relax. The worst they’ll probably do is smoke a joint on the bluffs and pass out.

“You going back tomorrow?” Sam asks.

I nod. “Alex will take over with the school group.”

It’s always a strange feeling, the moment I push open my apartment door after a cycle away. During my eight days on Limuw, my closed-up apartment takes on a scent, not entirely unpleasant, just not mine. While it goes away quickly, or I grow immune to it, the unease of that moment, the foreignness of my home, persists until I return to Limuw six days later.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Sam gestures his chin toward the dock, where Raymond Zhao still stands with the two cooks, then motions toward the diamond lady, who is gathering her daughter’s hair into a high ponytail, its auburn ends caught in the soft breeze. It’s supposed to get windier later today. Right now, it’s a whisper, a whistle. “Raymond Zhao and Cassie Bent on the island. My wife is gonna freak when I tell her.”

“Who’s Cassie Bent?” I ask, trying to decide if I recognize the name, if that’s why I was drawn to her.

“Bent? The clothing line? Come on, you must have seen that viral campaign they did in Antarctica. I’ve been working for the parks service her whole life, and suddenly my daughter sees a model in a bikini on an iceberg and decides she’s an environmentalist.”

I must look as clueless as I feel.

“Em, it practically broke the internet.”

I shrug. Sam knows I’m a digital recluse. I don’t have Instagram or TikTok. I don’t even have LinkedIn. He just doesn’t know why. We all have our reasons for being here, and it’s not merely a love of the land.

“This is going to earn me serious points in the cool-dad department.” Sam does a little dance, making me laugh. Even if I don’t know Bent, even if I have no means of measuring what’s cool in teenage-girl world, I can see all the ways Sam’s daughter must find him absolutely mortifying.

Cassie Bent stands with her daughter outside the pit bathroom, then motions her in when someone vacates one of the stalls. Sensing she’s being watched, she finds me across the way and smiles. I nod back, vowing my oath to her.

This weekend, I will keep Cassie Bent, her family and friends, safe. Because it’s my job as a ranger to protect them from the park, the park from them, and them from each other.