This is a work of fiction set in a real place. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Torrey House Press Edition, May 2016
Copyright © 2016 by Charlene D’Avanzo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written consent of the publisher.
Published by Torrey House Press
Salt Lake City, Utah
E-book ISBN: 978-1-937226-62-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015946056
Author photo by Derek Fowles Photography
Cover design by Rick Whipple, Sky Island Studio
Interior design by Russel Davis, Gray Dog Press
Distributed to the trade by Consortium Book Sales and Distribution
This book is dedicated to scientists struggling to
understand extraordinarily complex phenomena
associated with climate change. I was motivated to
write Cold Blood, Hot Sea by stories of researchers
maliciously targeted by climate change deniers.
I want to get out in the water. I want to see fish, real fish, not fish in a laboratory.
—Sylvia Earle, oceanographer and author
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
About Charlene D’Avanzo
MY FATHER ONCE SAID, “WHEN you step aboard a ship, you leave solid behind for that vast unseen.”
I rounded Maine Oceanographic’s biology building at a trot—and stopped dead mid-stride. Goddamn, she was regal. Royal blue against the blood-orange April sky, hundred-fifty-foot research vessel Intrepid waited patiently for us, her mooring lines slack over yellow pilings.
Skirting a cart loaded with long skinny bottles, I all but skipped up the gangway and stepped aboard. Intrepid swayed with the incoming tide. My leg muscles tensed, and I checked the nausea patch behind my ear.
Yeah, I’m an oceanographer who gets seasick. Dreadfully, embarrassingly seasick.
With her new red offshore racing jacket and blond hair, Harvey Allison was easy to spot on the stern deck. She peered up at an orange buoy that looked like a gaudy mushroom lying on its side—a ten-foot-tall, thousand-pound one.
I backed down the ladder to join her. My slippery old sou’wester made shouldering my duffel awkward.
“Dr. Mara Tusconi,” she teased. “Good morning.”
“Dr. Harvina Allison.”
Harvey reached up and ran her hand across bold black letters—MOI—Maine Oceanographic Institution. “It’s almost as if the buoys can’t wait to be released into the sea.”
I patted the instrument. “Just like we’ve waited all winter for the temperature data these babies will collect.”
Last year, ocean waters off Maine were the hottest in a hundred fifty years. Suddenly everyone who sold marine critters—lobsters, shrimp, eels—demanded to know what the hell was going on.
“Now maybe we’re more than nerdy scientists, Harv.”
“The future of Maine fishing? That’s high profile. Could be dangerous.”
“What—?” Intrepid’s engines came to life and drowned me out.
Atop roiling water, the ship pushed seawater aside. Soon we’d depart. Legs wide for balance, I made my way to the port side and grabbed a handrail crusted with salt. I licked a bit from my palm and grinned.
Salt. My mother always said there was extra salt in my blood, because both my parents were ocean scientists. I looked toward MOI. If they were alive, Mom and Dad would be on the pier waving good-bye. They’d be proud of me. But they never knew I followed in their footsteps.
The ship surged forward and pulled away from Spruce Harbor’s pier.
Harvey put her hand on my shoulder and interrupted my reverie. “Looks like a Winslow Homer painting from out here, don’t you think? You know, wooden piers around the bay, lobster buoys, tree-covered hills.”
The harbor blackened beneath a purple cloud. “Whoa,” I said. “Mr. Homer’s pissed off.”
Harvey
