nesting on the hills and fluttering through a wealth of trees, were the town lights. In front of us lay the inky wash of the vast Pacific.
The surf was gentle. Widely spaced, low breakers slid to shore, lazily spilling their phosphorescent crests, which peeled from right to left like a white rind off the dark meat of the sea.
Sitting in the sand, watching the surf, I kept thinking how near we were to Christmas. Two weeks away. I didn’t want to think about Christmas, but it twinkled and jingled through my mind.
I don’t know what Bobby was thinking. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to talk. Neither did he.
I brooded about what Christmas would be like for little Devlin Acquilain without his mother. Maybe he was too young to understand what death meant.
Tom Acquilain, her husband, knew what death meant, sure enough. Nevertheless, he would probably put up a Christmas tree for Devlin.
How would he find the strength to hang the tinsel on the boughs?
Speaking for the first time since we had seen the sheet unfolded from the woman’s body, Bobby said simply, “Let’s go swimming.”
Although the day had been mild, this was December, and it wasn’t a year when El Niño—the warm current out of the southern hemisphere—ran close to shore. The water temperature was inhospitable, and the air was slightly chilly.
As Bobby undressed, he folded his clothes and, to keep the sand out of them, neatly piled them on a tangled blanket of kelp that had washed ashore earlier in the day and been dried by the sun. I folded my clothes beside his.
Naked, we waded into the black water and then swam out against the tide. We went too far from shore.
We turned north and swam parallel to the coast. Easy strokes. Minimal kicking. Expertly riding the ebb and flow of the waves. We swam a dangerous distance.
We were both superb swimmers—though reckless now.
Usually a swimmer finds cold water less discomfiting after being in it awhile; as the body temperature drops, the difference between skin and water temperatures becomes much less perceptible. Furthermore, exertion creates the impression of heat. A reassuring but false sense of warmth can arise, which is perilous.
This water, however, grew colder as fast as our body temperatures dropped. We reached no comfort point, false or otherwise.
Having swum too far north, we should have made for shore. If we’d had any common sense, we would have walked back to the mound of dry kelp where we’d left our clothes.
Instead, we merely paused, treading water, sucking in deep shuddery breaths cold enough to sluice the precious heat out of our throats. Then as one, without a word, we turned south to swim back the way we had come, still too far from shore.
My limbs grew heavy. Faint but frightening cramps twisted through my stomach. The pounding of my riptide heart seemed hard enough to push me deep under the surface.
Although the incoming swells were as gentle as they had been when we first entered the water, they felt meaner. They bit with teeth of cold white foam.
We swam side by side, careful not to lose sight of each other. The winter sky offered no comfort, the lights of town were as distant as stars, and the sea was hostile. All we had was our friendship, but we knew that in a crisis, either of us would die trying to save the other.
When we returned to our starting point, we barely had the strength to walk out of the surf. Exhausted, nauseated, paler than the sand, shivering violently, we spat out the astringent taste of the sea.
We were so bitterly cold that we could no longer imagine the heat of the crematorium furnace. Even after we had dressed, we were still freezing, and that was good.
We walked our bicycles off the sand, across the grassy park that bordered the beach, to the nearest street.
As he climbed on his bike, Bobby said, “Shit.”
“Yeah,” I said.
We cycled to our separate homes.
We went straight to bed as though ill. We slept. We dreamed. Life went on.
We never
The surf was gentle. Widely spaced, low breakers slid to shore, lazily spilling their phosphorescent crests, which peeled from right to left like a white rind off the dark meat of the sea.
Sitting in the sand, watching the surf, I kept thinking how near we were to Christmas. Two weeks away. I didn’t want to think about Christmas, but it twinkled and jingled through my mind.
I don’t know what Bobby was thinking. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to talk. Neither did he.
I brooded about what Christmas would be like for little Devlin Acquilain without his mother. Maybe he was too young to understand what death meant.
Tom Acquilain, her husband, knew what death meant, sure enough. Nevertheless, he would probably put up a Christmas tree for Devlin.
How would he find the strength to hang the tinsel on the boughs?
Speaking for the first time since we had seen the sheet unfolded from the woman’s body, Bobby said simply, “Let’s go swimming.”
Although the day had been mild, this was December, and it wasn’t a year when El Niño—the warm current out of the southern hemisphere—ran close to shore. The water temperature was inhospitable, and the air was slightly chilly.
As Bobby undressed, he folded his clothes and, to keep the sand out of them, neatly piled them on a tangled blanket of kelp that had washed ashore earlier in the day and been dried by the sun. I folded my clothes beside his.
Naked, we waded into the black water and then swam out against the tide. We went too far from shore.
We turned north and swam parallel to the coast. Easy strokes. Minimal kicking. Expertly riding the ebb and flow of the waves. We swam a dangerous distance.
We were both superb swimmers—though reckless now.
Usually a swimmer finds cold water less discomfiting after being in it awhile; as the body temperature drops, the difference between skin and water temperatures becomes much less perceptible. Furthermore, exertion creates the impression of heat. A reassuring but false sense of warmth can arise, which is perilous.
This water, however, grew colder as fast as our body temperatures dropped. We reached no comfort point, false or otherwise.
Having swum too far north, we should have made for shore. If we’d had any common sense, we would have walked back to the mound of dry kelp where we’d left our clothes.
Instead, we merely paused, treading water, sucking in deep shuddery breaths cold enough to sluice the precious heat out of our throats. Then as one, without a word, we turned south to swim back the way we had come, still too far from shore.
My limbs grew heavy. Faint but frightening cramps twisted through my stomach. The pounding of my riptide heart seemed hard enough to push me deep under the surface.
Although the incoming swells were as gentle as they had been when we first entered the water, they felt meaner. They bit with teeth of cold white foam.
We swam side by side, careful not to lose sight of each other. The winter sky offered no comfort, the lights of town were as distant as stars, and the sea was hostile. All we had was our friendship, but we knew that in a crisis, either of us would die trying to save the other.
When we returned to our starting point, we barely had the strength to walk out of the surf. Exhausted, nauseated, paler than the sand, shivering violently, we spat out the astringent taste of the sea.
We were so bitterly cold that we could no longer imagine the heat of the crematorium furnace. Even after we had dressed, we were still freezing, and that was good.
We walked our bicycles off the sand, across the grassy park that bordered the beach, to the nearest street.
As he climbed on his bike, Bobby said, “Shit.”
“Yeah,” I said.
We cycled to our separate homes.
We went straight to bed as though ill. We slept. We dreamed. Life went on.
We never
Similar Books
