by kc dyer
Raj’s demeanor, at least when he speaks with me, has reverted back to frustratingly formal once again. I find myself feeling unaccountably annoyed with him about this. I mean, considering all that we have been through on this wild goose chase of my dad’s, you’d think he could just loosen up a little. This morphs, of course, into feeling angry at myself for even caring. We agreed to forget anything that happened between us. Why should it matter how this colleague of my dad’s acts?
But somehow, it does.
Making things worse is the complete radio silence from Anthony. I decide to spend the day ignoring my frustration with all of them—my doping dad, my unresponsive fiancé, and even the carefully polite Raj—since they all are leaving me extremely cranky at the moment.
Capri is a brilliant, multicolored jewel floating in the balmy Gulf of Naples, a very short distance off the Amalfi coast. We disembark from our water taxi on the tourist dock of the Marina Grande, and the town of Capri climbs up the mountainside above us with a splash of every color you can imagine. From this angle, the houses look like brilliant building blocks set against the cliffside, one atop the next. The blues and reds and yellows pop against the rocky cliffs and sparkle in the morning sunshine.
We agree to meet back on the pier at four, and still internally fuming at both of them, I stomp off toward the tourist office. I’m quite sure neither one even notices as they hurry away to meet their colleague without even a backward glance. Considering this is my first real day off on the entire journey, I resolve on the spot to forget about all the men in my life and enjoy Capri to the full. Collecting a small paper map from the quiet tourist office, I set off in search of the Via Krupp.
All the signs are in both English and Italian, which makes finding my way a piece of cake. I pay two euros to step inside a very clean and efficient funicular, which scoots me up the side of the mountain. It’s a vehicle that feels like a bizarre cross between an elevator and a subway car. Just over four minutes later, I step out into the city’s main piazza, and from there, I follow my map all the way across to the Augustus Gardens.
The Via Krupp is a cobbled walking path, zigzagging its way down the cliffside in a series of tight switchbacks. Ostensibly it was built for Herr Krupp, a scientist, to make his way between his shipboard laboratory and his cliffside home. However, the whispered story is that the road made it easier for Krupp to scoot down to a hidden grotto at the base of the cliffs, where he indulged in extracurricular orgies and other debauchery.
The views of the island and across the water are astonishing, and below me, the path winds its way down in a series of tightly cobbled switchbacks all the way to the beach. While I have no inclination to find out if the orgy thing is still happening, my plan to take the jagged path down to the beach is thwarted, however, when I discover access to the Via Krupp is blocked. The sign, in both Italian and English, notes that the path is closed due to recent rock falls.
Pausing to catch my breath, I lean against the wall and look out over the island, trying to decide which beach will be nicest to plant myself for the rest of the day. Suddenly, I hear a yell followed by a distant splash. Just up the coastline, I spot a group of small brown dots moving around on a promontory jutting out from the cliff face. As I watch, one of the dots leaps off the cliff and lands with a splash in the waters far below. A second jumper follows the first, and then two who may or may not be holding hands join in.
I have less than zero interest in hurling myself off a cliff, beautiful setting or no, but the water below the jumpers appears to be a little cove, and I can see several paddle boarders and even a kayak floating on the azure sea. Aside from a gentle ripple, the water looks as clear and calm as a swimming pool.
Since none of this experience even resembles a normal sort of vacation, I have, of course, had zero time for shopping. The only bathing suit I have with me is my training suit from my time on the university team. Swimming was my go-to exercise in university, and it meant I got a workout three times a week, no matter what the weather. My training fell off considerably during the internship at NOSH, but I still managed at least two trips to the pool most weeks.
So, while my navy blue NYU training suit is technically for swimming, the only other people I see wearing one-piece suits are all grannies. In the changing room, I lock my phone and the rest of my things—except for my big hat—away and tell myself that it doesn’t matter. I don’t know a soul here. No one is going to point and laugh. And I’m not going to let my lack of a cute bathing suit spoil my day.
Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing a neon yellow life belt—much more fetching than a full life jacket, to my mind—and getting the feel for paddling my jaunty orange kayak. This place has it all, from scooters to surfboards, but a kayak seems like the best choice, somehow. The shortest rental time is two hours, which seems excessive, but the idea of taking a gentle tour along this part of the coastline appeals to me tremendously, so I choke down the expense and settle in to enjoy the chance to paddle on this gently rolling, very salty sea.
I’ve never paddled an open kayak before, and the experience is exhilarating. As soon as I’m outside the confines of the marina, I lose myself shooting across the waves, which are admittedly a little choppier outside the rope boundaries. I’m essentially just sitting in a series of deep dents atop the kayak, with nothing more complicated than a little rope attachment to assist in raising or lowering the rudder. Pausing to get my bearings, I spot the jagged trail of the Via Krupp farther along the coastline, just past a rugged outcropping of rocks on the shore.
The waves begin to rise up a little as I approach the rocky finger poking out into the water, and I can see white foam shooting up where the water is crashing against the rocks. Beyond the outcropping rests the tranquil, sandy cove I spotted earlier.
As I paddle closer, I get a clearer view of the jumpers on the cliff face high above, and I suddenly realize that the cliff walls are essentially awash in a wide selection of gorgeous men. I mean, I’ve heard Capri is supposed to be a destination for the beautiful people, but this is ridiculous. I’ve never seen so many tanned six packs in my life. These guys wear swim suits in a rainbow of jewel tones and patterns, ranging from speedos to board shorts. Their water-slicked hair is every shade from fairest blond to black, and I even spot a single redhead with hair well past his shoulders. It’s impossible not to stare.
Someone somewhere must have a boom box, because music is echoing weirdly off the cliff walls, which, by the time it makes it down to me, takes the form of an ethereal, unearthly sound. There must be dozens of jumpers lining the cliffs, yelling joyfully before they leap skyward and then plunging into the crystalline waters below.
This wide selection of beautiful boys catcall across the cliff face to egg each other on, and a few of them even appear to be dancing. Strangely, I don’t see a single woman. High above, a jumper launches off the cliff in a giant, curving arc, executing a perfect somersault before landing feetfirst with almost no splash.
I suddenly realize, with a start, that in the time I’ve been staring, mesmerized by the movements of these ideal, male bodies, my kayak has been slowly drawn toward the rocky outcropping near the cove. And the stretch outside the rocks is filled with some suddenly substantial waves.
So substantial, in fact, that when I hear a shout behind me, I turn my head to see an extremely buff surfer dude careening right toward me.
“Woooo HOOOO!” he screams, and all I get is a glimpse of tanned abs and curly dark hair before he does some kind of swivel of the hips, and his board zigs off behind another wave.
I aim myself at the quiet cove again and paddle with all my might, but it’s no use. My kayak has taken on a mind of its own and is shooting through the waves toward the rocks. Two more surfers appear, moving fast. There is a sort of roaring whoosh, and the closest one careens sharply past me and disappears over the waves. The other surfer, whom I notice is sporting earphones, must make a wrong move, becau
se his board is suddenly flying skyward with no sign of him on it.
As this second guy disappears, I hear music again, less distorted now. I have a momentary flash of recognition as Taylor Swift tells me to “Shake It Off” before she is drowned out by the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks. The wind picks up suddenly and swirls my hat off into the water.
I manage to scoop it up with my paddle and jam it underneath my seat for safekeeping.
Lack of any sort of recent swim practice means my arms feel like they are about to fall off, but as soon as I take a rest, the nose of my kayak rises alarmingly. Worse, no matter how hard I paddle, the waves somehow pull me inexorably away from the cove and toward the rocks. I briefly consider bracing my paddle against the frame of the boat to push myself clear of the rocks when the choice is taken away from me. The next wave hurls the nose of my kayak even higher, and I’m suddenly watching it shoot into the air without me as I sink beneath the choppy waves of the brilliant blue Tyrrhenian Sea.
chapter thirty-four
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Calamari a la Capri
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the Isle of Capri
The sheer bounty of the sea is one that all cultures and races around the Mediterranean never take for granted, and even fishermen who have plied these waters for decades know the importance of granting each sea creature its due . . .
Drowning is never a question.
I mean, I’m wearing a life belt, after all. And people—people who are good swimmers—who wear life belts don’t drown.
Do they?
The music, of course, is cut off the instant the water sweeps over my head. A different sort of noise altogether takes its place. A low, deep thrum, but not at all like the bass line of a pop song. It’s the call of the ocean, somehow deeper than sound, pulsing in my ears. The rushing and roar of the waves is gone too, and above me, momentarily, the outline of my little kayak is dark against the transparent crystal of the water.
Luckily, the life belt in question is very buoyant, and I pop up to the surface almost immediately. As I do, I inhale a big, panicked gasp of air, which, that close to the top of a wave, is just about half water.
Coughing, spluttering, and panic-flailing, I bob in the waves, retching the salty water out of breathing passages not designed to accommodate it.
I say “bob,” but really, after that first sort of rocketing trip to the surface, I’m almost immediately slapped under again, and this time, when I frantically kick upward, my right knee hits something so hard the shock reverberates through me. The pain is not quite instant, but when it comes, it’s so intense my entire leg goes momentarily numb.
This is a problem, as you might imagine, when attempting to swim.
My mind flashes back to my dad telling me the story of how Odysseus so angered Poseidon that the god made it his business to attempt to drown the adventurer. But what have I done to infuriate the god of the seas?
Whatever it is, he must be pretty angry. This time, when my life belt pops me and my nonfunctional leg to the surface, I gasp again for air, only to find the tide is still sweeping me in a collision course for the rocky point. And yet, just past this spot, past where the waves are foaming and slapping against the rocks, just out of reach, the water looks calm and blue—and yes, even inviting.
But over here in this vortex, I’m being churned like a single sock in a washing machine.
The feeling comes back—with a vengeance—to my knee, and I have just enough undrenched brain cells left to know that these submerged rocks are going to kill me before the water does. The next time, it could be my head instead of my knee.
As if the sea is listening, at that moment something smacks me on the back of the head. I flail—because, let’s face it, all I’m capable of at the moment is flailing—and hook my elbow on something.
It’s my paddle.
This is less good luck than it was good planning, as I only now remember how the rental company had tethered me to it with a wrist strap before I set out. I make the mistake of clutching it like a life ring, and the paddle instantly shoots back down under the surface, which is exactly where I do not want to be at the moment. As I drag it back up toward me by the tether, I realize the paddle blades float, though not enough to hold me up. Still, it does help a bit. After tucking it under both my arms I find I can kick my legs and keep my face above the waves fairly easily.
There is no sign, any longer, of the kayak itself, but I don’t have time to worry about that now. I put my head down, concentrate on not inhaling more water, and kick. This time, I smack my ankle bone into one of the submerged rocks, which shoots pain and panic through me in equal measure.
I need to get out of here.
Suddenly, my ears clear out enough to hear the cliff divers’ music, again pounding from the boom box on the shore. This is both good and bad news. The tide has sucked me back near land, but this part of the shore really, really wants to smash my bones.
“Concentrate, Gia.” I don’t, of course, realize I’m speaking out loud until my mouth fills with water. Smooth move, idiot, I think, this time keeping my mouth closed. Then, more as an effort not to kick another rock, I lift my legs and stop fighting for a minute.
Flipping the paddle under my neck, I attempt to float on my back. Floating is the wrong word for what I’m doing, but I’m not drowning, at least, at the moment. My arms are useless since I have to clutch on to the paddle to keep it from drifting away, but I aim myself on an angle away from the rocks and try tiny flutter kicks.
And, miracle of miracles, it works. Kick by kick, inch by inch, I edge my way out of the clutches of whatever undertow has held me in its grip. I feel so relieved to be actually moving under my own power again, I just stare at the blue, blue sky and keep kicking.
By the time I dare to dangle my feet beneath me into the water, I’m more than a hundred feet away from the rocks. I take a quick look down, and there is no sign of anything—anything—below me, which is freaky in its own way. Flipping the paddle under my arms again, I frantically tread water for a minute to get my bearings and look back toward Capri. The quiet cove has vanished, faded back into the general silhouette of the island. The crash of the surf is gone, but so is the surreal, echoey music.
This isn’t a problem. I’m a good swimmer. Now that the threat of the rocks is gone, I just need to redirect myself toward one of the open, sandy beaches. I take a deep, steadying breath and pretend the paddle is just a kick board, and I’m in the pool.
When I stop to check again, I can’t say that I’ve made any noticeable progress. In fact, looking around, I see I’m now farther out than the last of the surfers. To give myself a little rest from kicking, I turn over and try floating on my back for a minute with the paddle tucked underneath my head. Staring across at the island, I realize the docks of the Marina Grande have faded from view, and in spite of all my work, everything looks even farther away. It comes to me that I am slowly and inexorably being swept out to sea.
Strangely enough, all sense of my earlier panic has left me, but I’m also incredibly worn out by this unaccustomed spate of physical activity. When most of what I’ve been doing lately involves moving my fingers across a keyboard, a day with a big walk, a paddle, and now a life-or-death swim is a somewhat startling contrast. So, for the moment, I float and stare at the sky and try to look for positives.
The first thing I realize is that all the morning’s animosities seem to have been washed away by these salty, blue depths. Compared to being lost at sea, Anthony’s lack of communication no longer bothers me at all, and I can’t even dredge up a shred of annoyance at my dad. Also? It occurs to me that if I ever do manage to get myself ashore again, I’d like to thank Raj properly. He’s helped me every step of the way on this crazy journey with my dad, and I’ve never really acknowledged it. No wonder he always acts so stiff. I hate being unapprecia
ted myself, and I’ll bet he does too.
I’m not sure when the sound of the motor begins to register within these internal musings. When it finally does, I pop upright as much as the life belt will allow and try to spy-hop myself high enough to see which way it’s coming from. Apart from a sense that I’ve drifted a long time—possibly days—I have zero idea as to where I am. The thought of being spotted by any kind of watercraft would be just about ideal at this moment.
The opportunity for rescue by motorboat morphs so rapidly into the likelihood of death by motorboat, it’s shocking. One minute, I’m trying to bob above the waves to look for rescue, and the next, I’m back to fast-kicking to save my life as a fishing boat roars by. It’s so close I get pushed aside by the bow wave, and then suddenly I’m caught in a tight little eddy behind the boat’s wake that spins me like a cork.
The next minute or so goes by in such a blur, it’s difficult to describe. A wash of water, a scrape of rope, and a horrifying sense that someone or something is watching me—from below. There is a sudden mechanical noise—a sort of repetitive clanking whir. My foot gets tangled in something for just long enough to jerk my head below water. There is a brief sense that I’m stuck, and when I frantically slide my hands down to free my foot, I feel something thick and soft squeeze my ankle briefly before slipping away. Then my face bobs back out of the water again, and when I gasp for sweet, sweet oxygen, instead I inhale the overpowering reek of gasoline. This is immediately followed by the sound of shouting voices and a big jerk, and I’m suddenly airborne. The next moment I’m hauled bodily aboard a boat, paddle and all.
My life belt catches on a metal cleat on the side of the boat, and the arms that have been dragging me aboard suddenly release. This is not really a problem, as I tumble inward, landing on a sort of spongy surface, equal parts soft and rough. The skin of my arms feels like it has been excessively loofahed, but I’m so happy to be out of the water, all I can do is just lie back and cough. My head feels incredibly heavy, and I’m not sure I could sit up if I wanted to.
