The thinnest ripple of water washed over the tops of my feet, sending chills up the backs of my legs. Reflexively, I recoiled, hopping back toward dry land.
This was a stupid idea. Supremely, extraordinarily stupid.
Although the dozens of other people playing around in the ocean at the moment would’ve likely disagreed with me. They were all happy and relaxed, free from irrational fear.
Meanwhile, I was terrified. Not only of the ocean, but of other things, too: failure, judgment, rejection. But if I was ever going to make any progress in this life, I would have to pretend those fears didn’t exist.
In other words, I would have to fake it.
So I kept putting one foot in front of the other. They were small steps, but they brought me forward into the shallows. I continued on, passing a mom dipping her baby’s toes in the water, an elderly couple holding hands as the waves lapped their ankles, some teenagers tossing a football and diving to catch it before it hit the surface.
Always looking ahead of me, never looking back. Progress was happening, right before my eyes.
The positive affirmations, the vision board, the “fake it till you make it” philosophy. I’d scoffed at them, but maybe there was value in this whole process. Because now, I was standing thigh-deep in the Pacific Ocean for the first time in years. And it was incredible.
I felt strong, capable, fearless. Like I had finally found the trailhead of the path to happy.
I was proving Rob wrong. I was making Natasha proud.
Then suddenly I was face down in the water.
After some panicked flailing, I managed to right myself. One of those teenagers had knocked me off my feet during a dive to catch the football. With an apology, he grabbed my arm to steady me. Freaked out, I wiggled away from his grip and stumbled backward, only to fall again, this time on my bottom.
This was a stupid idea. Supremely, extraordinarily stupid.
Scrambling to my feet again, I stepped to the right, down into an unseen hole. Water sloshed against my stomach and I scrambled out of the pit before the next wave rolled in, crashing against my thighs, threatening my already precarious center of balance.
Telling myself not to panic was futile—my heart was already threatening to bust through my ribs—so instead I focused on getting out of the water as quickly as possible. There was a lull in the waves now and the water rippled around my shins. Just a few big steps and I’d be back on dry land.
I took great long strides, digging my toes into the sand for traction. At one point, I stepped on a shell or a rock, something sharp that cut the bottom of my foot, but I kept on walking, eager to reach the shore. When I did, I collapsed in a heap, my hair soaked, my chest heaving.
What the hell had I been thinking? As if some aspirational Instagram photo and a dime-a-dozen aphorism would’ve miraculously cured me of my very real, very deep-seated fear.
Salt water dripped from my skin, and I realized I’d forgotten to bring a towel. As I wrung out my hair with my sand-covered hands, I cursed myself for being so foolish as to believe in aspirations and abundance and energy following thought. If the universe really was delivering a message, then it was telling me to stay the hell home. Which is where I wanted to go, immediately.
But as I tried to stand up, my left foot began to burn. I sat back down and inspected the cut on the bottom. It was small, like a narrow shard of glass had lodged itself in there. The pain was enormous, though, spreading outward and upward. Then, it was all I could feel or hear or see.
Pain. Deep, throbbing, excruciating pain.
My scream ripped across the beach, echoing off the dunes.
Chapter 7
“We need to get you to the lifeguard tower. Can you stand up?”
There was a crowd around me now. Helpful, concerned citizens were rubbing my back and holding my hand. A few teenagers hung back and gawked. I’d have been humiliated if I wasn’t in agony.
“I think so.” I pushed myself up, leaning forward and putting all my weight on my right foot. The movement caused my left leg to throb fiercely. Shaking from the pain, I faltered and fell sideways, but a woman wrapped her arm around my back and steadied me.
“We’ll support you, okay?” A man was on my opposite side, his hand hooked under my armpit. “We’re just gonna walk over there.”
He pointed across the infinite expanse of sand, toward the lifeguard tower back by the entrance to the beach.
“Okay,” I said, though I felt far from okay, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna make it. Still, I forged on, hopping over uneven mounds of sand, crying out each time my body made contact with the earth. At any moment, I expected my left foot to spontaneously combust.
My eyes were focused on the ground, making sure the path in front of me was clear. The last thing I needed was to trip on a tangle of kelp and twist my remaining good ankle. After sweating and hopping for what seemed like an eternity, I raised my eyes, only to see the lifeguard station still an impossible distance away. Unwittingly, I moaned.
“You’re almost there,” said the helpful, concerned woman with her arm around my back. But I wasn’t almost there, not by a long shot, and my foot and leg were getting worse by the second.
There was a commotion behind me, some kind of chipper chatter. Surfer bros commenting on waves or something. I couldn’t focus well enough to make out exactly what they were saying, but there was a lot of “dude” and “sweet” and “stoked” getting thrown around. Then, a shadow appeared on the sand in front of me, and the people supporting me stopped in their tracks.
“What happened? Is she okay?”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar. I looked up, and there was Trey Cantu, famous pro surfer, sopping wet and hot as ever. As my saviors explained how I’d stumbled from the water and screamed uncontrollably, he glanced at my rapidly swelling foot and said, “I’ll take her the rest of the way.”
In one swift movement, he grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder. Instinctively, I shrieked, but quickly settled down when I felt his firm grip on the backs of my thighs. I was safe here, nestled up against him, his strong legs carrying us capably over the uneven terrain. My ass was dangerously close to his face, but I was surprisingly indifferent about that. It was hard to worry about anything aside from the pain.
Moments later, Trey sat me down gently in a blue plastic chair outside the lifeguard tower, placed my dress and phone in my lap (how had he found them?), then stuck his head inside the doorway, yelling, “Stingray wound out here!” He came back and knelt at my feet, inspecting the cut on my sole. “Looks pretty clean.”
“It hurts!” I screamed like an animal.
A lifeguard rushed out of the tower with a white five-gallon bucket in her hands. It was lined with a clear plastic bag and filled with water. “Put your foot in here,” she said, and I complied.