She skids to a halt, kicking up sand, swishing her tail like it’s a whip. She looks at me with big cocoa eyes, trusting and adoring and expectant. I chuck her ball into the waves, exactly as she wants, and she leaps after it, crashing into the cold water like it’s her job—which I guess it is. She’s a goldendoodle, a golden retriever crossed with a standard poodle, a designer dog my mom undoubtedly paid too much for because the newest member of the Parker clan had to be hypoallergenic. Bambi has hair, not fur, because my niece, Janie, inherited allergies from her mama. Janie’s the one who branded my dog with her name, actually, a nod to the clumsy Disney deer.
She springs out of the Pacific, neon ball clamped between her jaws, and dashes at me, sailing over mounds of slippery, stinky kelp that have washed onto the beach with the tide. She pulls to a halt just short of my shins, dropping her disgusting ball at my feet. She shakes, a slo-mo, full-body convulsion, and I scramble to block my camera from the drops of water that go flying. I should be annoyed—I’m wet now, and the morning is gray and windy, not exactly summer-balmy—but it’s impossible to be frustrated with Bambi. She is at all times obliviously joyful.
I bend to scratch her wet head, and she paws the sand with an ungainly puppy paw. “Again?” I ask in the falsetto I reserve for her and Janie.
We go through the motions another dozen times. Me, hurling the drool-drenched ball into the surf. Bambi, chasing and swimming and splashing, coming to me time and again to seek a pat and another throw.
We’ve got the beach pretty much to ourselves. Central California doesn’t get much of a summer—not on the coast, anyway. We’re lucky if the fog burns off in time to catch the sunset. Thanks to so many years spent in San Francisco, I’m used to the dreariness, but somehow it was more tolerable there, haze hovering over asphalt and structures of steel and glass. Here, where building code dictates no property should rise above three stories, the constant mist feels thick and oppressive, like a damp wool blanket.
Bambi and I walk farther down the stretch of sand, playing our endless game. As much as I hate getting up early, and as much as I dislike living in tiny Cypress Beach, I’ve come to look forward to these mornings with my new dog. So much so, I bring my Nikon to photograph the waves and the gulls and her. It’s risky, what with her shake-off showers, but worth it. I’m snapping yet another picture, Bambi bouncing over a knoll, when movement up ahead catches my attention.
I lower my camera, letting it hang from the woven strap around my neck. Absently, I toss the tennis ball, not so far this time, because I’m watching a tall figure move down the beach. He’s a ways south, but I can tell he’s somewhere near my age—a small miracle in this town. He’s wearing dark track pants and a hooded sweatshirt, and his hair’s black, standing out in sharp contrast to the pale sand.
He strides into the surf, fully clothed.
The air is cool and crisp, and the ocean is frigid. He’s up to his knees when a white-capped wave breaks hard against his middle, driving him back a few steps. I expect him to wade out, back to the beach, but he presses forward, undeterred, immersing his lower half completely. He uses his hands against the surging breakers like he thinks he can control them, like he’s unaware of the water’s absolute power.
I’m no fearmonger—that’s more in keeping with my mom’s personality—but the Pacific’s scary along this strip of the coast. I’ve seen surfers in dry suits, but unless you’ve got a board, this isn’t a swimming beach. Thanks to the California Current, the water’s bitter cold and the undertows are unreal. There are sharks, too. Big ones, which normally feed on harbor seals and sea lions, but are probably ravenous for breakfast at the moment and would likely settle for a nice big bite of boy.
“Hey!” I call as he moves farther into the swells. Stupid, because there’s no way he can hear me over the wind and the waves.
What he’s doing … It’s so unsafe.
Without a second thought, I take off in his direction, clutching my camera so it doesn’t knock against my chest. Bambi chases me, nipping at my heels.
He’s up to his shoulders when I reach the dragging footsteps he left in the sand. I watch him jump as waves distend, then advance beyond him in a race for the beach. His head bobs the way Bambi’s ball does after landing in the surf. If he goes any deeper, he could be sucked out to sea.
“Hey!” I scream again, waving my arms.
He doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t want to, because he pushes off and paddles farther out.
He’s an adrenaline-seeking dumbass, or he’s suicidal.
I keep my eyes on his dark hair and peel off my sweatshirt, trying not to strangle myself with my camera’s strap in the process. I toss it into the sand and take half a second to wrap my Nikon in its fabric, praying my beloved camera doesn’t get stolen or lost to an aggressive wave.
Then I bolt into the ocean.
elise
I lose my breath immediately.
The water is millions of sharp pins sinking into my flesh. The breakers are powerful, but I battle them, keeping my eyes trained on the boy. Distantly, I hear Bambi’s distressed barking. I spare a quick glance over my shoulder as I slog through the deepening water; she’s still on the shore, hopping around. Silly dog will follow her ball into the water, but not me.
Again, I shout at the boy.
Again, no response.
Death wish, I think. And then: Me, too.
By the time I reach him, a good thirty yards offshore, I’m numb. My teeth are chattering and I’m not calling out anymore because my tongue’s immovable. Treading to keep my head above water, I make a grab for his shoulder. He wrenches his head around and I realize, too late, that I’ve startled him. He jerks out of my grip.
“I’m trying to help you!” My voice is scratchy and my throat feels raked over.
He shakes his head. No.
“You can’t be out here—it’s dangerous!”
As if to illustrate my point, a rogue wave crashes over our heads. The current yanks me deeper … deeper … deeper. I’m blinded by salt water and so disoriented my arms flail outward. My hands grapple for something solid, something to help me right myself. I’m panicking—I’m a millisecond from opening my mouth to a deep breath of cold water—but then my feet touch the seafloor. My toes curl into the murky sand. I bend my knees and shove off.
My head breaks the surface and I gasp for air. I’m choking, coughing, sputtering, and my eyes sting. I blink to clear the salt from them, and then I’m searching, kicking to keep my head above water.
He’s … nowhere.
I whip around, terrified I’ve lost him, this stranger I never had in the first place.
My heart turns over when his head surfaces to my left and just out of reach. I lunge for his sleeve, and my fingers close around a handful of cotton. I yank him close, then grab for his submerged hand. It wraps around mine. He uses his other to swipe water from his face, retching and hacking, pulling in air.
“We have to get back to the beach!”
He looks at me, confused and afraid and lost. His raven hair is plastered to his forehead, and his skin is olive, clear with the exception of a few days of dark stubble. His eyes are arresting, fiery amber, contrary to his darkness. He appears … not Californian. Maybe not American. God, what if he doesn’t speak English?
I gesture to the beach, treading hard to keep my head from slipping beneath the waves. “Safe-ty,” I holler, enunciating the syllables in a way that might be offensive, whether he’s foreign or not.
He nods, still clinging to my hand.
I force my tired legs to kick, towing him along with me. He’s kicking, too, but our progress is frustratingly slow. I try not to think about rip currents and sharks. I try not to think about hypothermia. I try not to think about the stranger who’s hanging on to my hand—who he is or where he came from or what the hell he was thinking when he traipsed into the ocean.
I try not to think about how I nearly drowned attempting to help him.