Carefully, I pick my way over the pebbly beach, then test the surface of the rock. It’s wet, and slick, but not enough to worry me. I move across the uneven, rocky surface, squatting down every now and then to peek in the tide pools. I see tiny fish, crabs, and sea anemones with brilliant-red bases and sunshine-yellow tentacles.
The low booming of waves can almost be felt through the rock. I leap across a little cut through the rocks. And by little, it’s less than a foot wide and only a few inches deep. Every time the waves slam into the rock, water rushes through the miniature channel to fill the tide pools. Tiny, nearly clear sea anemones sway toward the shore then back when the water rushes out.
I follow the little cut in the rock toward the water. It broadens out and grows deeper. That slows the flow. It’s too wide for me to jump across, so I wade in to get to the other side.
I hiss as cold needles bite at my ankles. My toes go instantly numb and my bones ache. When the water draws out, it nearly sweeps me off my feet.
I follow the cut in the rocks. The booming of the waves gets louder, fiercer, more wild. The cut widens, then narrows. The force of the water rushing in and out changes depending on how wide the cut gets. I hop across the narrow areas and head further from shore. The rock slopes up a bit, so I feel safe from the waves.
The wind aerosolizes the spray from the crashing waves, turning it into a fine mist. I glance out at the water, surprised how far from the shore I am.
I tiptoe closer to the edge, entranced by the tiny mussels and clams clinging to the rocks as waves slam into them again and again.
A voice calls out. It comes from the water. When I look up, a massive swell rolls toward the shore. My mind buzzes a warning. The voice becomes more insistent. The swell grows larger.
Then it hits me. My mind does the calculations, comparing the size of the normal waves to the one coming in.
Then I get it. The size of that swell and the wave it will form when it crests is a problem. The height of my little rocky outcropping above the water will not protect me.
I turn to run, but my ankle twists in a hole. I fall to my knees. Behind me, a low rumble approaches. My fingers claw against the rock, seeking purchase. All I have to do is hold on.
The wave crashes over the rock and spills over my body. Intense cold steals my breath as the wave knocks me loose. It rolls me over the rock, pushing me toward shore, and just when I think I’m safe, the water draws back, taking me with it. I scramble and claw at the rock, but it’s no use.
I go right over the edge and into a churning vortex of death.
Three
Noodles
I shout, telling Mitzy to get back. What in the world possesses her to take her eyes off the ocean? Doesn’t she understand how an ocean works?
There’s a rhythm to the ocean. Swells come in periods. They vary in size.
Every surfer knows this.
We count sets, waiting for that next big wave. Hell, I’ll give up twenty runs when I know the next wave is going to be huge.
Everybody with half a brain understands this. Walking out on those rocks at high tide is crazy stupid.
Every twentieth wave spikes in size, but that’s not what’s rolling in.
Cupping my hands over my mouth, I yell to get her attention. If she’d only look up, like a sane person, she’d see the wave coming. There’s plenty of time to retreat.
Silly chick peeks over the leading edge of the rock. What the fuck is she looking at?
I shout as loud as I can. Slowly her head lifts, but it’s too late. The wave crests and crashes on the rocks, washing her toward the shore. For half a heartbeat, I breathe out a sigh of relief, but as the water draws back, her body is swept back, and she disappears over the edge.
I lie flat on my board and put my powerful arms into motion. One of two things will happen. Either the waves will slam her up against that rock and kill her, or she’ll get lucky and that first draw back will drag her out of the danger zone.
I don’t see her body, but I keep my attention locked to where she went over. Timing is going to be tricky. I might be able to yank her on top of my board and ride the surge back out again.
Might.
If I’m lucky.
I pause on the rising edge of a swell and scan the churning waters. A pop of bright pink catches my eye. Her psychedelic hair turns out to be a lifesaver.
Mitzy thrashes in the waves, sputtering with fear.
For now, it’s enough to keep her head above the water, but the waves don’t give a damn about the danger she’s in. They keep rolling toward land, pushing her toward the rocks, drawing her back.
I doubt the sanity of what I’m thinking.
But what choice do I have?
She won’t last long in the chilly water.
I count the period between the waves, measuring in seconds the distance I have to travel and the time it’ll take to get her on the board, and finally, how to do all of that without getting pulverized myself.
Her movements become more erratic as the cold saps her strength. The chilly water isn’t a problem for me. Five millimeters of neoprene protect my body, but it’s a death sentence for her.
Now or never.
I time my entry and paddle like hell, coming from the side of the wave. My plan is to come in from the side, yank her onto my board, then paddle back out over the waves.
It’s a solid plan, until she fucks it up.
The most dangerous thing in the water is a person drowning. Mindless with fear, a victim will drown their rescuer in their panic.
I cut in on the back of a swell and come alongside Mitzy. My plan is to yank her out of the water and drape her over my board. I’m strong enough to paddle through almost anything.
But in her fright, she pulls me off my board and tries to climb over my head to get out of the water. She gulps mouthfuls of saltwater as she crawls up my body, pushing me down.
The violence of the surf slams us forward, drags us back. A booming vibrates in my chest.
Not one to panic, I let everything come to a standstill.
Mitzy claws at me. One foot kicks at my chest, steps on my shoulder. She pushes me under. The slow, solid beat of my heart centers me as I grab a hold of her ankle.
I’m not letting her go.
Instead of fighting, I wait her out, counting down the seconds in the slow rhythmic beat of my heart.
The cord wrapped around my ankle jerks as my board gets tossed around on the surface.
Mitzy’s movements weaken. I surface and push her away from me, while still keeping hold of her ankle.
Switching to a rescue tow, I loop one arm around Mitzy’s chest, roll to my back and get the hell out of there.
Perilously close to the rocks, I kick, using the momentum of the water to gain distance. When we surge forward, I use only as much energy as required to keep us in place. As soon as the water draws back, I kick in high gear.
Limp in my arms, Mitzy coughs and sputters. She mumbles something incoherent. The water’s rough, challenging for the strongest swimmer, but this is where I excel. Instead of letting fear, or excitement, grab a hold of me, I sink into the moment.
Become one with the ocean.
I don’t fight the waves. I let them carry me, using the minimum amount of energy to move away from the rocks. We’re not out of danger. There’s still the breakwater to get past, but we’re alive.
Once we’re far enough away from the rocks, it’s time to figure out how to get Mitzy through the crashing surf. To get back to shore, we must first head away from land. She won’t like that.