Saturday, November 9, 2024
Even though I’ve never been to Miramar Beach, I don’t have to waste precious seconds searching for Hannah. There’s a crowd of people in bathing suits standing on the shore, pointing at something far off in the water, and I know it has to be her. Always the center of attention.
My heart is in my throat and the back of my T-shirt is soaked with sweat as I throw my rental car into park and race across the sand. I’ve never driven so fast or blown through so many red lights. The entire ride here I thought I would be sick.
By the time I make it to where the crowd’s gathered, I can see her bobbing in the dark waves. She goes under and people gasp. My heart leaps into my throat. But after a few seconds she resurfaces, hacking water, and relief fizzes through me.
It’s short-lived. “Where’s the lifeguard?” I ask the strangers. “Why isn’t someone going after her?”
“They do a roaming patrol,” says a blond guy. “They’re not at every beach.”
“But we called the Coast Guard number on the riptide sign,” says a woman with a kid clinging to her knees. “They’re on their way.”
The small crowd is mostly families, parents with kids too young to be in school, but there are a few men and women my age. They’re all watching me apprehensively.
The blond guy points behind him to two large red flags. “Rip current’s vicious today. Swimming to her could jeopardize our lives.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“It’s true,” pipes in another guy. “Everyone knows you don’t swim out to someone in a rip current. It’s suicide.”
A voice cries out, and our heads whip back to the ocean. Hannah has been dragged even farther away. The sea is pulling her from me, taking her like it took her sister.
I kick off my shoes and yank my T-shirt over my head. A small mercy that I’m already wearing my bathing suit.
“Hey, no way,” barks the woman with the kid. “Donotgo in there. The Coast Guard’s coming. Just wait.”
“That’s not good enough,” I say, and the crowd bursts into protests. Two of the guys even try to hold me back, gripping me by the shoulders, but I shove them away, my whole body tense with panic.
The crowd backs up, giving me a wide berth, mothers stepping in front of children.
I don’t know the Pacific Ocean, or beach rules. I was never a swimmer. All I know is that Hannah is in danger and there’s no way I can stand by and watch her drown. As I move toward the water, one of the women in the crowd lifts her phone to film me.
I almost laugh. “Are you kidding me? You’re going to film this?”
But she doesn’t lower her phone, only lifts her chin defiantly.
Fine. Screw these people for not only standing around and watching a woman die, but turning it into a spectacle. I charge into the icy water, goose bumps lighting up my body, and dive.
The instant I surface and start swimming against the waves, battling the tardark Pacific, I feel the rip current. I’ve never experienced anything like it. It drags me from the shore like I weigh nothing. I know one thing about rip currents—that I’ve got to let it take me—so I simply pray and keep swimming as the water rushes around me. The water is briny and keeps pushing its way into my mouth and nose, forcing me to spit and choke, but Hannah’s getting closer, and with the power of the rip current supercharging each of my strokes, I quickly close the distance.
“Hannah,” I yell, but the waves swallow my voice. I force myself to keep going. I’m almost to her.
“Hannah,” I repeat, just as I get close enough to seize her shoulder.
It startles her—she jerks around, and a wave crashes over us both. I wrap an arm around her and pull her back to the surface.
“Come on,” I shout. “We’ve got to swim back.” But she looks at me without seeing, lost to some other world. Her breathing is too slow. I wrap my arms around her to keep her afloat.
“It’s me, Theo,” I say. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”
But I’m barely keeping us above the waves. And she’s so out of it, maybe still drunk like Kenny warned, or too tired from fighting the drag. I need her to focus.
“We have to swim parallel to the beach. Please, Hannah.”
Her eyes flutter. I grip the back of her icy neck to keep it above water, but now I’m sinking.
“Ginny’s gone now,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes. She’s limp. I’m struggling to keep her afloat.
