Hina shrugged and smiled. “I came in first.”
Minnow gasped. “First in the whole thing?”
She nodded.
“You are a legend, Hina. Now I’m the one who’s impressed. I’ll wave when you pass me on your way back,” Minnow said.
“Insider tip—pay close attention to the current and move in or out, depending.”
“Thank you.”
Hina went off toward the crowd, and Minnow spotted Luke milling about, wearing a Speedo himself. He had not seen her yet and he was clearly searching for someone. She watched him, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world that it was probably her he was looking for. The moment their eyes met, he smiled. Minnow waved and he came over, leaning down and giving her a long, slow kiss. She held on to his shoulders and let her mouth linger on his lightly sugared lips.
“You’ve been eating malasadas again, haven’t you?” she asked once they pulled apart.
He wiped his chin. “That obvious, huh?”
“Not the best pre-race meal.”
“I’m addicted, what can I say?”
“How many?”
“Just one.”
“Liar.”
He laughed. “Okay, three.”
Luke glanced beyond her and she turned to see a boat approaching. It was Woody and his captain friend Jay, but there were two other men aboard who looked a lot like Nalu and Cliff. Twenty feet off the beach, the two jumped into the water and swam ashore.
“What are you guys doing here?” Minnow asked when they walked up, dripping wet, Nalu also in a Speedo.
“Solidarity,” Cliff said.
“We figured we may as well join you in the race,” Nalu said with a shake of his hair.
“Been a while since I done a swim this long, but Woody said he’d rescue me if I need rescuing. Just don’t expect me to wear those bikini bottoms. Ever,” Cliff said, nodding toward Luke and Nalu.
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Wear whatever you want. I’m just glad you’re both here.”
“And I fed Hina on the way here, so we’re good to go,” he said in all seriousness.
“Perfect.”
There was nothing to worry about.
Even with fewer entrants than in past years, the beach ended up rock to rock full of people. Everyone had a large number written in black grease on the side of their thigh, and Minnow was number seventy-seven. Photographers had lined up on the rocky bluff, setting up their large telephoto cameras. Minnow heard the wordsharkfloating around a few times and shook her head. These guys were probably hoping someone would get bit, sending ratings through the roof.
As she struggled to tuck her hair into her swim cap—something she hardly wore—she felt a tug on her arm. A tall, pale woman with short blonde hair, a Panama hat and aviators stood next to her, smiling.
“Minnow,” the woman said.
There was something familiar about her. “Yes?”
The woman glanced around, then lifted her glasses for a second. “It’s me.”
Angela Crawford.
