She was standing at the railing and looking out over the little island. She could see nearly all of it from up here. “I am the master of all I survey,” she told herself, “the queen of my castle.” But then she gazed out over the water and saw the hazy lump of Key West, and she knew the truth. A queen, maybe, but in exile.
She lowered her gaze and saw the dock again. She tried to find the little boy from earlier, but it was impossible. He was just one small figure among many now. There were other kids, and other parents, too. A small crowd had gathered, still waiting for the first boat of the day.
A pile of luggage was growing at the edge of the dock. Drew looked at the pile, looked at the people, looked back at the pile, added it up. It wasn’t enough luggage for the number of people. That meant some of them were just going into Key West for the day. She heard her friend’s voice: “where the party’s at.” She needed to figure out how to get on that boat.
Her parents would never let her go alone. She had to give up on that dream right now. They simply wouldn’t. And if she snuck off and hopped on the boat right before it left, they’d hop right on the next one. They’d comb every square centimeter of the place until they found her, shouting “Drew-Bear! Drew-Bear!” the whole time and embarrassing her to high heaven.
No, she’d have to bring them, and even that wouldn’t be easy. She’d have to work on them, convince them. She made up her mind to start later that day. A few casual comments here and there, just to plant the seed.
She wandered over to the railing and looked out into the distance. It was open ocean as far as the eye could see: clear blue tropical water, shadow and light and wind playing over its surface. Her mom was right; it was quite pretty.
She took one last look over toward Key West as she tugged her shorts up her legs, and there it was, a fat boat making slow progress across the water. The little crowd was more animated now, as if someone had stepped on their anthill. She pulled her shirt over her head, found her second flip-flop, and headed down to find her parents. The restaurant would be open now, and she was hungry.
* * *
Down at the dock, the fat-bottomed boat bumped to a stop against the rubber tires strung along the side of the pilings. The day manager of the hotel was there to meet it and throw the rope.
“Hey, Zeke,” he said to the boat’s captain.
“Hey, Marco,” said the captain.
Zeke’s real name was Jonathan Palpen, but he’d learned long ago that the tourists preferred something a little more down-home. He’d picked Zeke off a show about gator wrestlers.
“Hold on now, folks,” Zeke called. The tourists on board were already standing up and trying to get off the boat. The ones onshore were already rumbling down the dock, jockeying for position. Sundays were always the worst. “Let me tie up first!”
There was a little edge in his voice that made them listen. Zeke had been out at the local bars the night before. It was what they called “a late night” in most places, but in Key West they just called it Saturday. He tied up, fore and aft, and then squinted up into the sunlight. He eyeballed the count: maybe a dozen, most with luggage. It would be close to capacity.
“Let ’em off first,” he called, as the inbound passengers began to file off the boat. He didn’t bother to soften his voice. The tourists liked that, too. Captain Zeke, with his tattered white captain’s hat, short temper, and faint smell of booze — so authentic!
“Marco, my man, can you help me collect the money?” he called, even louder. “Five bucks a head, no exceptions!”
“Sure thing, Zeke!” called Marco.
They always did it this way because some of the outgoing guests would give Marco one last tip, a few dollar bills to go along with the fiver for the boat. Marco would then quietly slip some of the haul over to Zeke, along with the outgoing mail and any FedEx packages that needed to be dropped in the box at the marina.
The tourists bumped and jostled their way along the dock, out of and into the boat. Luggage was dropped from the boat onto the dock and vice versa. And all that sound was conducted into the water, through the wood of the dock or the bottom of the boat. It was a thick bass beat, an irregular, spastic drumming, an entire rhythm section of commerce.
It carried through the water, and it didn’t go unnoticed. Some days, Zeke would see a small shark come right alongside the boat to investigate, maybe a spinner or even a blue. Some days he saw something larger. Today, he mostly just saw luggage. He eyed the tags as he stowed the cases: EYW for the little airport on Key West, FLL or MIA for the larger ones in Fort Lauderdale or Miami. That last one always seemed unlucky to him: MIA … missing in action. Maybe that’s why he never made it up that far.
Some of the passengers greeted him. They remembered him from the trip out or the year before, or even the day before for the day-trippers. He grunted a response. The truth was they all sort of blended together after a while, different faces every day of every week of every year.
Soon the money had been collected and the luggage stowed. The ropes that had just been thrown on were thrown off. Marco gave them a theatrical wave. “Thanks again for choosing the Aszure Island Inn!” he called as the old boat began to putter away. “Tell your friends!”
The passengers waved back at him and then turned around to face forward. Most of them had long trips ahead, long trips to cold places. Zeke kept his eyes on the water ahead. A long, dark shadow crossed paths with the boat sixty yards out and slipped silently underneath. A part of the creature’s primitive brain told it to follow this noisy thing. It knew what it was now. But it was too small. It was the big ones that sometimes left food in their wakes. It was the ones as big as a dozen whales that were worth following. Not this one.
The shark glided silently on.
Davey was in up to his waist. That’s as far as he’d planned to go, but the breakers were coming in right at stomach height and really letting him have it. He decided to wade out a little farther, just past them. It’s not like he would get any wetter. The waves had already declared a splash fight and won handily. When Davey pushed his hand back through his hair, he was surprised to find it slick as an otter’s. He didn’t care; he was having fun. He waded out a little farther.
He’d just been through an entire Ohio winter: bleak and gray and cold. He’d spent almost all of it inside, and most of that in his room. This felt good. Splashing around in the sun. The water gave him a little tug under the surface, and he let out a little bark of laughter as he regained his balance. The splash fight was over, and the sea had just challenged him to a game of tug-of-war.
He wasn’t even sure which sea. His best guess was the Gulf of Mexico, but there was a chance it was the Caribbean. He made a mental note to check when he got back to the hotel room. As soon as he thought about that dark, crowded, smelly little room, he knew he’d made the right decision. Whichever sea it was, even if it was still just the Plain-Jane Atlantic, everyone back at school would be impressed.
He walked parallel to shore for a while. He looked back at the beach. It looked smaller than he remembered, and he had no trouble taking it all in. He was still alone. He saw the sign leaning over in the sand. He couldn’t read it from here without his glasses, but he knew what it said. He thought about swimming a little anyway. Just a few strokes to say he did it. He was a pretty good swimmer. He and Brando used to go down to the lake every day, back when he did things like that.
The ocean had gone quiet around him. He was so lost in thought that it took him a while to notice. When he did, he looked out to sea. The surface was flat in front of him. He assumed it was because he was out past the surf line. But when he looked in toward shore, the surface was flat there, too.
It was the strangest thing. There were breakers on both sides of it, and then this band of flat water in between. It was as if something was knocking the waves down here. And something else seemed weird. It was the breakers; they’d moved so far in toward shore.
He got a sick feeling in his gut.
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br /> He took a breath and told himself not to panic.
The breakers hadn’t moved farther in. He’d gone farther out. Much farther than he’d intended. Much, much farther. The water was up to the middle of his chest, and suddenly that seemed way too deep.
He stopped walking and felt the same tug under the surface that he’d felt before. And now the panic flooded through him: It had never stopped. He’d been walking against it this whole time. It had pulled him a little farther out with each step, leading him along like a bad friend. He looked down. The water was so clear that he could see his feet. He could practically count his toes. But he was so far from shore. The slope had been gentle up to this point, but it could drop off five, ten, twenty feet at any moment. He’d be in over his head — over his head in some sea he couldn’t even name.
He started in toward shore. At least he tried to. He took a big step, and then another. He pushed his legs through the water as hard as he could. But the water pulled back just as hard. Every time his feet left the bottom, the sea tugged him backward. After half a dozen steps, he was sure he was no closer to shore.
His forehead was still slick with water, but he felt the sweat break out along it in little pinpricks. He decided to swim for it. He lunged forward and began kicking before his face even hit the water. Once it did, he began throwing his arms forward.
His fear wanted him to flail away, to scratch and claw at the surface. He didn’t let himself. He needed to do this right. He remembered his lessons, maintained proper form. He kicked with his legs and pulled his outstretched hands through the water in full, even strokes. He looked to the side to get his air.
And he needed that air. His lungs began to burn almost immediately. It had been a long time since he’d swum to anything farther out than the raft at the lake. And even that was a while ago. He’d barely gone to the lake at all the summer before. He remembered the swim in from the year before that. How he would run the length of the raft and dive headfirst. He’d glide and kick to see how far he could go underwater. By the time he’d come up, he’d be halfway to shore.
The memory was so strong that Davey expected to be halfway to the beach by now. He was tired and needed a break anyway, so he broke his rhythm and took a quick look forward. If he’d had enough air in his lungs, he would’ve screamed. The beach was farther away now. It looked so small, like he could hold it in his hand. So small, and so empty. He wanted to call for help, but there was no one there.
It had been a mistake to swim. He knew that now. He stopped kicking and let his feet fall back underneath him. He pushed his arms sideways through the water to keep his head and shoulders steady. In a few moments, he was straight up and down in the water. But he wasn’t standing. His feet could no longer reach the bottom.
He kicked a few times, just to stay afloat. He took a few quick gulps of air. And then he began kicking and throwing his arms forward. He scratched at the surface of the water. He clawed.
Panic turned to desperation and Davey turned that into effort. He was cranking out more effort than he ever had. Swimming had been a mistake — this whole thing had been a mistake! But here he was, and swimming was all he had now. He just needed to try harder, to get back to where his feet could touch.
But desperation is a fast-burning fuel. His muscles ached as he threw them forward. His lungs screamed for more oxygen. His rhythm fell apart. He turned his head to the side to breathe, but he got greedy. He was still sucking in air as his head turned back down. He inhaled bitter salt water and coughed facedown in the sea. More water slipped in. He spit out as much as he could and kept going.
He was no quitter. He never had been. He could read an entire book in one sitting. A lot of people have probably done that, but for Davey, the book might be four hundred pages and the sitting six hours. He’d won races in gym by being kind of fast for longer than his classmates could be really fast. And Davey was pretty sure that if he stopped trying now, he would die. Keep trying or die. It wasn’t even a question.
As he got farther from shore, he approached a sandbar lurking under the surface. That’s what had caused this. As the ocean had pushed forward and the waves had piled onto shore, tremendous pressure had built up for all that water to get back out to sea. The sandbar had shifted, as it did sometimes, and a gap had opened up. The water had found the gap and rushed back through it. People called them riptides, but they weren’t really tides at all. Rip current was more accurate. That’s what they were: currents, shifting and dangerous.
Davey had started counting his strokes in sets of four. It helped calm his raging mind and gave him something to focus on. He couldn’t keep swimming forever, but he could do another four. On the fourth stroke of his next set, he forced himself a little farther up out of the water. He sucked in a lungful of much-needed oxygen and risked a quick look forward. With water in his eyes and without his glasses, the beach was a blur of color far away. Still so far away. He fell back into the water. Higher up meant deeper down, and now he was under the surface.
It was quiet under here. Even his aching muscles eased a bit in the warm churn. It was almost peaceful. This is how I’ll die, he thought. Under the warm, clear water. They say that, right before death, your whole life flashes in front of you in seconds. And if a whole life takes seconds for an adult, how long does it take for a thirteen-year-old? And how long does just one memory take? It flashed into Davey’s mind fully formed, like a fish pulled from the water.
It was his family’s last vacation, two years ago. They’d skipped last year. They were staying with relatives in Colorado and had spent a day riding down a fast-moving river on inner tubes. They were all bundled in fancy, neon-yellow life jackets. Fallen tree branches had snagged on the river bottom and collected into big bird-nest-looking tangles in some places.
The family had sailed past the first few with their dad calling out orders: “Watch out!” and “Left, left, left!” or “Right, right, right!” But Brando had managed to bull’s-eye the third one. He rode the fast-moving current right into the center of it, and his tube stuck fast. Brando popped right out of it and into the water. His life jacket had been way too big for him, and he’d bobbed down the river like a yellow rubber ducky. Their mom angled over and scooped him up. No harm, no foul, except that now his tube was hung up on branches back upstream.
They’d left a security deposit, and their dad was determined to get the tube back. The rest of them angled their tubes over into the shallow water along the bank and watched. He took off his life jacket, dove into the water, and swam for it.
Tam was a good swimmer. At first, he made some progress. It was two steps forward with every powerful stoke. But the current would push him one step back on every little pause in between. He made it maybe ten feet back upriver before the ratio started to reverse. One step forward with every stroke, two steps back with every pause. Pretty soon he was right back where he started. He’d looked at his family, surprised to see them right there. Davey remembered his father’s face, exhausted and embarrassed.
Tam had dived back in. Tried again. But this time he hadn’t even made it five feet, not even the length of his body. In the end, he had to walk through the bushes and prickers along the bank, wearing just his shorts and life jacket. He got scratched and cut and stung by a bee. He got upstream of the tube, dove back in, and got a hold of it, but he never said another thing about it.
Davey pushed back to the surface. His muscles roared with outrage. They thought they were done with effort, done with everything. But he battled on. He breathed in quick gulps, but water still slipped in, this time through his nose. He cleared it as best he could, but he could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate. He pushed his muscles to the point of exhaustion and then past that.
All that effort, and this time he was the one who couldn’t make it five feet. A river in the sea. That was the only way he could understand it: He was in a river in the sea. How could he fight a thing like that? How could he win when even his dad had given up?
He gave up and the current took him. The sun pushed light through his closed eyelids. He was barely conscious, floating backward. Some primitive part of his brain — not even human, really — kept his systems going. The rest of his brain — all the higher functions, the brain that had been able to read a fat book in one sitting — could hold only one simple thought now: Stay afloat. His legs twitched when they could into something like a kick. If you can, stay afloat.
And he was carried out to sea.
Brando fell off the bed. It was bound to happen. He’d fallen asleep on the very edge of the thing. He rolled one way to get more comfortable. Then he rolled back and onto the floor. His head pumpkin-thunked on the soft carpet.
“Corn dog!” he blurted. It’s what he said when his Spider-Sense told him his parents were around.
They’d been close to waking anyway. Now, as if they were garage doors activated by the words corn dog, they rose. His mom sat straight up in bed like a zombie rising from an autopsy table. His dad finally stopped snoring. In the sudden quiet, Brando could hear him throw off the covers on the far side of the bed.
Pamela was the first to speak. “Brando?” she said. “Davey? Was that you?”
From her perch on the bed, she could see neither of her sons.
Brando rubbed his head and heard himself say, “Davey’s not here.”
And, oh boy, that did it. Pamela followed his voice down. She wasn’t especially surprised to find her youngest on the floor in between the beds. Then she looked over at the cot and her mouth dropped open.
“What do you mean, ‘not here’?” she said at the exact same moment that Tam said, “Well, where is he?”
Brando got to his feet. His mom’s face was puffy from sleep. The side of his dad’s face was a web of red lines from where it had been pressing against the pillow. Brando almost felt bad for them. They’d been awake for seconds on the first day of their first vacation in two years and they already had something to be mad about. He was just glad it wasn’t him. “How should I know?” he said.
Surrounded by Sharks Page 3
