The Water Keeper

by Charles Martin

  I swam back across the canal, turned her so she was facing away from me, put my hands on her hips, and said, “Do you trust me?”

  She placed her hands over the top of mine and shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Are you willing to be willing?”

  She paused and eventually said, “Yes.”

  “I’m going to lift you slightly, move you to water that’s deeper, and hold you while you kick and pull. Deal?”

  She hesitated and then nodded quickly.

  Hands on her hips, I lifted her and moved her just a few feet into deeper water. With a death grip on my hands, she stood arrow straight in the water. I thought we’d start with something easy, so I said, “Kick with your feet like you just did with your hands.”

  She tried with little success.

  “You mean to tell me with as much muscle as you have in this body and those dancing legs of yours that you can’t kick harder than that?”

  Summer was trembling but the thought registered. Still holding my hands, she kicked harder and actually lifted herself up in the water. Had I not been holding her, she might have treaded water. By this time, we had Clay’s attention too. He’d inched himself up in his hammock and could see from where he sat.

  Gunner, never one to waste an opportunity to get wet, launched himself in the water and paddled himself around us in circles. All the while, he’d lick Summer’s face and then mine and then hers again. Aside from the licking, he was actually helpful.

  I nodded at Gunner. “You see what he’s doing?”

  She quit kicking and returned to an arrow with a death grip on my hands. “Sort of.”

  “I want you to do that. So start kicking.” She did. “Now let go of my hands and start pulling. Just like Gunner.”

  One hand slowly let go, then quickly latched back on. She shook her head.

  I pulled her to my chest where she quit kicking and wrapped her legs around my waist like a vise. “Trust me.”

  She stared at me a long minute.

  I know the fear of drowning is a primal thing. We’re all born with it, and it’s tough if not impossible to reason ourselves out of it. Takes serious strength of will to do so. I said it again: “Trust me.”

  She loosened her grip, and I turned her facing away from me. She began kicking again while still holding my hands. Then slowly, one by one, she let go and began treading water. To comfort her, I pressed my hands against her hips. To let her know I was still there. But she was so strong that I had a difficult time holding her down. So as she found a rhythm and began holding herself at the surface of the water, I slowly eased off. After a minute, I was only making contact with her skin so her mind registered my fingers, but I was offering her no help whatsoever.

  Having stayed afloat for the better part of a minute, she let her fear begin to take over and her hands returned to mine. But her legs kept kicking. I could work with that. Summer’s problem wasn’t that she couldn’t swim. She could. Her problem was fear, but I knew she’d figure that out soon enough.

  I pulled her to the shore where her feet found purchase on the sand, and she walked up the beach to the sound of Clay clapping. She looked like a soaked kitten, smiling and proud of herself. The next lesson wouldn’t be as fun, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Yet.

  We loaded up, pulled off the beach, and started the journey to Stuart. The no-wake zone continued another half mile, so Summer sat next to me while Clay resumed his perch on the beanbag. Summer caught me looking at my hands. She was smiling, apparently having enjoyed her lesson. Feeling like she’d accomplished something. She thumbed over her shoulder. “That reminded me of dancing. Back when I could really dance. On the . . . on the stage . . . my partner—depending on the show—would hold my hips the way you did and then throw me into the air.” She paused. “Sometimes, when all the world was right”—she smiled—“which wasn’t often, I’d catch a slow-motion glimpse of the audience somewhere in my spin. I can still see those pictures. Dim now, but I can still see them.”

  I was extending my fingers and then making a fist, stretching my hand. She asked, “You okay?”

  I’ve used my hands for lots of things, but a tender touch on a woman’s hips was not one of them. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  Truth was, it was the first time I’d touched a woman with tenderness in a long time. She put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good teacher.”

  Chapter 15

  I needed to get to Stuart, and having made the turn across the canal, we now had a bit of a tailwind. I pushed the trim tabs down, forced the boat up on top of the chop, and moved across the water at thirty-five mph or better. One of the beautiful aspects of my boat is that it’s a little heavy for its size, which produces a Cadillac-smooth ride in choppy water. That has its downside in skinny water, but I’d face that when the time came. Gone Fiction was made for water like this, and so we churned across the top of it, eating up the miles.

  We entered the waters of the Indian River and the no-man’s-land of mudflats north of Cape Canaveral. Mars on earth. For several miles the channel is marked by twisted poles stuck at odd angles into the soft earth. The remains of an enormous tree and its massive root ball lay resting in the water a hundred yards south of us where the water depth shrank to two feet across a two-mile-wide mudflat. The wind picked up and Summer felt it. As did the sideways chop, which pushed ocean spray over the side of the boat. It’s difficult to talk near forty mph, so I motioned for Summer to stand on my other side—back in the safety of the eye of the hurricane. Moving from my left to my right, she twirled. Unconsciously.

  Clay, meanwhile, sat without a care in the world. One hand on Gunner, the other flat across his chest. Occasionally he would cough, but somehow he held the spasms at bay. As the sun fell off to our right, my attention turned to Angel and the satellite phone. Normally I kept it stowed until I needed it. I used it more for making calls than receiving them. But coverage in the Keys, which is where I figured her boat was headed, was spotty, and if she had coverage and tried to call, I wanted her to connect. I made a note to dig it out when we stopped.

  We crossed Mars, turned south, and passed through the bascule span of the Florida East Coast Railway Bridge. The bridge sits low to the water and remains in the open position, flashing green lights notifying boats that entrance is permitted. When a train approaches, green changes to flashing red, a siren blasts four times, pauses, blasts four more times, and after an eight-minute delay, the bridge lowers and locks.

  I saw the bridge some two miles distant and watched as the green light flashed to red. I also saw the train on my right. It was a long one, and I could not see its end. That train could delay us thirty minutes or more while we floated like a bobber in a thirty-knot crosswind and the engineer picked his teeth. That did not sound like my idea of fun.

  Knowing I had about eight minutes, I pushed the throttle forward, bringing the engine to six thousand rpm’s, and moved across the top of the water at more than fifty mph. Approaching the bridge, Clay raised both hands and sang loudly. I had no idea what he was singing, but I knew the tone and it sounded like freedom.

  As we approached the bridge, the horn blasted again. The bridge tender must have seen my intention to sneak through, because he sat on that horn. If we didn’t make it, Gone Fiction’s T-top would contact the bridge span and rip it off at about shoulder level. I thought we could make it. The bridge tender thought differently. Summer squeezed my arm. Tightly. As I closed the distance, I pushed the throttle to full and aimed for the center of the span. I had trimmed the engine so that only the propeller and lower unit were in the water.

  We passed through the span as the bridge started to descend, clearing it by well over twenty feet. On the other side, with the bridge tender still communicating his distaste for my theatrics on the radio, Summer released her white-knuckle grip on my arm. Her face was flushed with excitement and she was breathing heavily. Up front, Clay sat lounging with his legs crossed and both arms raised.
Fingers’ lunch box sat unmoving.

  Knowing I could refuel in Stuart, I threw fuel conservation to the wind and maintained forty-plus mph. To our left, the Kennedy Space Center morphed into Merritt Island. With the city of Cocoa appearing on our starboard side, I pointed to our port side and brought Summer’s attention to a small, almost imperceptible barge canal. She leaned closer and I said, “That cuts across the island and into Port Canaveral, where they dock the Trident submarines.”

  From Cocoa, Merritt Island encroaches on what was once the wide water of the Indian River and narrows the channel, offering protection from the wind. With the water smoothing out, I eased the throttle forward once again and leveled out at forty-five mph. We were skimming across the water.

  We passed Cocoa Beach, Patrick Air Force Base, Satellite Beach, and into the waters around Melbourne and Palm Bay when I finally throttled down to thirty. Clay had started coughing, and I wondered if my speed had been the cause or his singing.

  Either way, slowing down seemed to abate it.

  Making good time, we put Palm Bay, Malabar, Sebastian, and Winter Beach in our wake. At Vero Beach, the IC narrowed and congestion picked up. We encountered several boats moving north and fishermen returning from a day in the mangroves.

  Racing daylight, I navigated the wakes of oncoming vessels as best I could, but they pushed Clay around more than I would have liked. Were it not for the beanbag, he wouldn’t have made it. Vero Shores gave way to the no-wake zones of St. Lucie and Fort Pierce. Passing beneath the A1A fixed bridge and cut free from the no-wake tether on the southern end of St. Lucie, I glanced over my shoulder and realized I was losing in my race against what remained of the sun. I pushed the throttle well forward and didn’t slow again until we passed back under A1A at Sewall’s Point, which in my mind marked the beginning of Stuart.

  With darkness falling and boats dotting the waterline with their red and green running lights visible, I knocked the engine out of gear and glided along the surface of the water. Summer seemed excited. Both by the day behind us and by the possibility before us. We’d made good time and covered a lot of ground. Gone Fiction moved with the current in the now clear and open waters of Stuart. Hutchinson Island sat off to our left. As did the inlet that led out into the Atlantic. In between us lay an underwater sandbar that stretched for the better part of a half mile and appeared at low tide—a favorite party destination for boaters and jet skiers. Sandbars like that were much of the reason folks around here owned boats.

  With the boat floating along with the current, I led Summer to the back of the boat, where she stood unsuspecting and expectant. Without comment, I pushed her into the water. This even surprised Clay, who stood, grabbing the T-top for support. Gunner ran to the back of the boat and barked while Summer thrashed in the water. When her head bobbed to the surface of the water, her hands scraping the air like an eggbeater, I said, “Swim, Summer.”

  She was screaming, thrashing, and choking. Out of her mind. The current was pulling me farther from her, so I turned the wheel and beached the bow on the sandbar she couldn’t see and dove in. Summer was sinking.

  I lifted her hips, forced her head out of the water, and said, “Summer . . .”

  For one clear instant, her frantic and fearful eyes found mine. “Just swim.”

  Then I let go.

  I don’t know if it was Broadway and dancing, or the fact that I’d let go and she was so angry she just wanted to punch me in the face, or if it was unbridled fear. Whatever the cause, Summer began kicking and pulling—treading water. And when she did, her face and head broke the surface like a bobber. Where she stayed. First one breath, then two, then several. Realizing that she wasn’t sinking and not going to drown, she began involuntarily rotating in a counterclockwise circle. When she reached six o’clock, she saw me, and the excitement of actually swimming faded away from her face. Making way for anger.

  She spoke hastily. “I don’t like you.”

  “I know.”

  She continued to tread water.

  I moved two steps away from her. “Swim closer.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like you.”

  I took two more steps away, increasing the distance and her sense of insecurity. “Closer.”

  Reluctantly, she dog-paddled her way closer. Not close enough to touch me but almost. When she finally spoke, there was no humor in her voice. “You’re an evil man.”

  “Put your feet down.”

  She looked confused. “What?”

  “Put your feet down.”

  She stopped kicking with one foot and reached. When she did, she quickly touched bottom. Putting both feet on the sand, she quit paddling with her arms and stood still, the waterline at her collarbone. She stood, hair matted across her face, staring at me. A vein had popped up beneath one eye. I reached out and tried to push her hair back, but she slapped my hand and did it herself.

  “You okay?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  I waited.

  “You made me pee myself.”

  I laughed. “Well, no one but you and the sharks will ever know.”

  “Sharks!?” She launched herself off the sand and immediately started treading water again, but this time her movements were twice as fast. “Where?”

  “All around.”

  “You being serious?”

  I was laughing. “Yep.”

  She started inching toward the boat. “Get me out of this water.”

  “Summer.”

  She turned and looked at me. And when she did, she was almost smiling.

  I stepped closer. “You were swimming.” She put her foot down, then the other. This time she let me push her hair behind her ear. “All by yourself.”

  She smiled but reached out with her foot and those muscled toes and pulled a patch of hair from my leg. She raised both eyebrows. “You ever do that again and I’ll—”

  I smiled. “What?”

  “You scared me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have done it.”

  The water was warm and it felt good. I looked at the water below me. Summer thought I’d seen something. “What? A shark?”

  “No, I just felt a warm spot—”

  “Not funny.” Without saying a word, Summer left the safety of the sand and dog-paddled into deeper water a few feet away. Keeping her head above water, she looked up at Clay, who stood staring down at the both of us. He said, “Miss Summer, you’re swimming.”

  She seemed proud of herself. “Yes, sir, Mr. Pettybone, I am.”

  I climbed onto the sandbar as darkness fell in earnest. Summer paddled over, and when her feet sank knee-deep in the soft sand, I offered her my hand. She reluctantly accepted it. Climbing out and standing on the hardpack, she stared out across the water while the wind dried her face. In the distance, we could hear the crash of Atlantic waves along the shoreline. She whispered, “It’s just water.”

  I nodded. And when she turned back to face me, I whispered, “Forgive me?”

  She studied my face. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I get back to you on that?”

  I admired her strength. If ever a momma had a fighting chance at finding a daughter, this one might. You had to be tough to make it through something like this. And in my experience, she had tough coming.

  Clay met Summer on the boat with a towel while we idled up Willoughby Creek toward the waterside efficiency hotel connected to Pirate’s Cove Resort and Marina. We tied up along the bulkhead, and I left them to tend the boat while I walked up to the office and rented three rooms. Returning, I gave them each a key and pointed. “How ’bout we meet back here in ten? Fried shrimp on me.”

  Chapter 16

  Farther upriver, the lights of two bars shone festively on the water. Summer disappeared while Clay walked to his room just feet away. He was moving slower, walking from chair back to column to doorframe
—anything he could grasp to steady himself. When he reached his door, he unlocked it and walked in. Before he shut it, he looked back at the boat but not at me.

  Fifteen minutes later, we moored alongside two waterfront restaurants. I gave them a choice between live music at the Twisted Tuna or something quiet at Shrimper’s Grill and Raw Bar. Summer and Clay picked live music. We sat outside, along the water. Moon high and shining down. I’d made Gunner stay in the boat, which he did, but his whining told me he didn’t like it. His vocal protest attracted a few kids who were feeding the fish along the dock. A minute later, three kids were scratching his belly.

  Smart dog.

  We ate shrimp and talked little. I figured Summer was trying to decide if she was mad at me and Clay was conserving his energy, trying to keep the spasms at bay. While his eyes focused on his food, which he chewed slowly, every few minutes he’d glance at the boat.

  When she’d finished eating, Summer wiped her mouth, pushed back from the table, and offered her hand to Clay. “Mr. Pettybone, would you be so kind as to dance with me?”

  Clay set down his iced tea, wiped his mouth, and pushed back his chair. “Well, yes, ma’am.”

  Clay stood possibly six feet three inches and Summer was about five foot nine, so he reached down and she reached up. They walked to the makeshift dance floor. He held out his arms, she placed hers alongside his, and they danced. He was a good dancer. Summer laughed as the two slowly shuffled beneath the sound of his humming. Every few steps he’d raise an arm and send her into a spin. It was one of the more beautiful things I’d seen in a long time. An older, dying lifer full of regret and sorrow and a brokenhearted, middle-aged woman full of sorrow and regret. The two together made a happy sound out across the deck. The laughter was the proof.