“Okay,” she tells him. But how? Should she throw one leg up first, then the other? That seems like the most graceful way to go about it, but she doubts her flexibility. What, though, are the other options? She turns to look for Kenny, to see if she might glean some tips from watching him, but he’s already twenty yards offshore, paddling in lazy circles.
Pressed and at a loss, she throws herself across the boat’s bow, lying there for a moment like a felled pterodactyl.
“Bon,” Henrique says. “Bon, now just roll over. Yes—yes, that’s it. Right. Now … oops, don’t fall out. Okay. Yes. Now, here’s your oar. Hold on to it tightly! I’m getting in.”
And he does. And they’re off. It’s slow going at first; they can’t quite seem to find a rhythm, and because Henrique is stronger than Donna, it’s hard for them to keep to a steady, straight course behind Kenny. He’s got to readjust their trajectory constantly, paddling twice on the left side, then on the right, which elicits in Donna a great and untiring guilt. She wishes, desperately, to be a better kayaker.
Miraculously, though, once they break free of the cove and the breakwater, Donna hits a stride and they begin gliding through the water with an acceptable, if not graceful, ease. To their right, chalky cliffs plunge toward jagged spits of beach, their white faces reflecting off the still sea with blinding clarity. A few yards ahead of them, Kenny babbles something about prehistoric history and the Jurassic period, about fossils wedged for eternity into the cliffs’ soft walls. Donna does her best to ignore him; she doesn’t care about brachiopods or ammonites. She wants only to enjoy the warmth of the sun against her neck and the blissful sound of her paddle cutting through the water. She wants to watch the light ripple across the surface as she flirts, however guardedly, with the idea that Henrique might still love her.
They round a rocky point and find themselves in a small, isolated cove. Overhead, gulls circle, rising and falling on the wind’s currents. With his paddle, Kenny points to a spot on the cliff where emerald grass forms a stark contrast to the white chalk.
“We’ve got a peregrine falcon nest up there,” he says.
“Oh?” She’s surprised by her interest. “Where?”
“A bit hidden. But if you look closely, you can make out a small indent in the cliff wall, right under that patch of grass. They’ve stowed themselves away in there.”
“I can’t see it. Are there a lot of them around here?”
“One of the few in the area, I’m afraid. Almost completely killed off during the First World War.”
Henrique says, “It’s always the Germans.”
“Matter of fact, in this case it was the English.” With two deft strokes he spins the kayak around so he’s facing them. “Little buggers were killing too many carrier pigeons coming over with messages from the Continent. The war ministry started paying farmers a pretty penny to poach them.”
“You’re kidding,” Donna says.
“Afraid not,” Kenny says, and shrugs. He adds, “Sort of makes you wonder about how shortsighted we can be.”
Donna squints at the wall in search of the nest, suddenly skeptical. Soon, though, she gives up. Kenny’s story has caused her to lose interest in the falcons; she’s never been comfortable with allegories.
They thread their way out of the cove and continue their westward route, hugging the coast. In front of them, miles ahead, the cliffs begin to merge with the turquoise sea, and the sky dips to meet the impenetrable green of the land. The view’s so clear, and the colors so lush, that it’s hard to believe that they’re in gray, dreary England, rather than on some far-flung Mediterranean island. It’s hard to believe that this—that all of this—is on account of chalk in the cliffs’ soil. It’s a fascinating thought, she thinks, just how deceptive beauty can be, and she’s proud of herself for having it. Dipping her paddle into the water, she’s tempted to turn around and share her notion with Henrique. That moment passes, though, and she doesn’t. She’s worried that if she speaks out loud, the idea might then become ludicrous, and that the magnificence of the moment will turn dull. Yes, she’ll keep it to herself. She’ll stare forward instead, keeping her gaze fixed on the point where the colors collide, as she imagines Henrique smiling behind her.
Ten minutes later, just as Donna’s triceps begin to burn and she worries her arms might fall off, they round another craggy point and come face-to-face with a giant limestone arch, running parallel to the coast. Easily one hundred feet high, one of its ends plunges into the water of a shallow bay while the other connects to the shoreline. As they paddle through it toward the beach, shadows darken the water beneath them.
“Durdle Door,” Kenny says.
“Sounds like something out of Harry Potter.”
He ignores her. “Constant erosion of the limestone band that stretches there—at the western end—is what caused the arch. UNESCO’s named it a World Heritage Site. To the east there, that giant beach we’re looking at is Man o’ War Bay. ‘Durdle’ comes from the Old English ‘thirl,’ which means ‘bore’ or ‘drill.’” He adds, “Did a report on it back in the fourth form. Got myself an A.”
Donna’s not really listening. She’s staring up at the striated layers of limestone, wondering how the English could give something so beautiful such an absurd and mockable name.
Once they’ve passed through the arch and they’re closer to the beach, Kenny spins around to face them. “Who’s up for a little surfing, then?”
Donna twists around to look at Henrique, who shrugs.
Kenny laughs.
“No, no,” he says. “I just mean on the kayaks. You can stand up and paddle it like it’s a surfboard.” Leaping to his feet, he demonstrates, performing a few loose circles. “See? Perfectly safe. Could do a bit of yoga while you’re at it, if you’d like.”
“No, thank you.” Donna rests her paddle across her lap.
“Donna’s an excellent surfer,” she hears Henrique say.
She turns to him again, this time knocking the paddle into the water. Leaning over, she snatches it up.
“I’ve never surfed a day in my life.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “I bought you those lessons in Biarritz.”
“No, Henrique, you didn’t.”
“I did so! With that Australian instructor with the terrible accent. Afterward we had sangria by the casino.”
Thinking of Maria Elena, she can feel her lips starting to curl. “You’re confusing me with someone else.”
“Surely you’re mistaken.”
Donna whips her head around and faces Kenny. “All right,” she says. “Tell me what I have to do.”
“’Atta girl! So, first you’re going to want to—”
She doesn’t wait for him to finish. Inspired by rage, and jealousy, and defiance, she plants both of her feet on the kayak’s floor and stands straight up.
This is a mistake, she realizes. The kayak sways violently beneath her uneven weight, and as Henrique reaches out to steady her, she topples over and plunges into the water. The cold knocks the wind from her, and seawater floods her ears and nose. Kicking and flailing, she resurfaces and spits out a mouthful of salt.
“DONNA!” Henrique is shouting. “HANG ON!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she says. The life jacket lifts and presses against her ears. “I’m fine.”