The wave broke over his head, covering him with a whirl of water, seaweed, bubbles, and sand. For a moment, he didn’t know which way was up, but then he kicked downward, thrust his head out of the water, and gulped a lungful of air.
The wave had dragged him three or four yards out to sea, and now he was floating, keeping his head above water, his body rising and falling with the motion of the sea.
He started swimming toward the oilskin, trying to keep his head above water. Every now and then, a wave crashed into his face, forcing him to shut his eyes tight. Even so, his eyes stung from the salt water, and his throat was itching.
That was when he realized his first mistake.
Either he had miscalculated the distance, or his target was moving away from the shore, because he had the sense that he was no closer than he had been at the start. The icy embrace of the water numbed his limbs, and his arms and legs felt heavier and heavier.
His second mistake, he realized, was to assume that swimming in open water, in the middle of an Atlantic gale, was the same as doing so in the placid setting of a swimming pool. The waves pounded him pitilessly, and his strength was waning fast. He knew his energy would soon run out, and he sensed the fear, even icier than the seawater, rising inside him.
But just then, almost by accident, he discovered that if he swam diagonally, he could make much better progress than if he swam in a straight line. A current pulled him along and, instead of fighting it, he could use its power to reach his objective.
The distance narrowed. Suddenly, the yellow bundle was less than twenty feet away, and it would soon be within reach. The problem was that he could see it only briefly before the waves obscured it again,and he was forced to tread water as he got his bearings, using up valuable energy.
When he finally reached his goal, he didn’t exactly do so with style; rather, the bundle was washed against him by yet another wave. It struck him on the side, and for a moment he panicked and couldn’t breathe. When he turned, he saw a streak of yellow right next to him, and he threw out his right arm, expecting to feel a body under the plastic.
Two things happened at once. The first was that he discovered that the thing he was holding was hard—too hard to be a human body. The second, almost at the same time, was that something slimy had wrapped itself around his legs, and he yelled with fright. He kicked with all his strength to get rid of it but, whatever the thing was, it had bound itself tightly around his ankle.
The voice in his head spoke up again.You can’t do it. You’re going to die; you’re finished. You should’ve listened to me while you had the chance.
Roberto let out an angry, fearful roar. He reached down to his ankle, inadvertently swallowing more water in the process, and his fingers closed around the rough texture of a plastic rope. He pulled hard and managed to free himself. Drawing on his last reserves of strength, he grabbed hold of the yellow bundle, which had now become his salvation.
“Shit!” His voice was hoarse, his throat sore. “Come on, come on. For Christ’s sake!”
In the interval, the current had dragged him closer to the shore, to where the waves were breaking. When the water washed back, he could see rocks poking out like stony, barnacle-encrusted knives.
From some unknown place, he summoned his last ounce of strength and kicked hard, using the bundle as an improvised flotation device. If the waves dashed him against the rocks, he was surely done for. He was fighting a losing battle. The combined forces of the current, the waves, and the undertow pushed him relentlessly, and all effort was futile. The wordsThe Endlit up like a neon sign in his mind’s eye. He wasoverwhelmed by a mixture of primal terror and incredulity, and yet too tired to resist. An avalanche of water covered his head, and he gasped.
Just then, something jolted him sideways. When he managed to push his head above the waves, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
On a rock, some ten yards away, Diego was holding the rope that was attached to the orange buoy. The waves must have washed it ashore, and the kid, overcoming his fear, had somehow made his way across the slippery rocks and grabbed it.
“Hold on!” came Diego’s muffled cry. “Hold on tight!”
It was easier said than done. The bundle—covered with plastic and offering no easy handholds—slipped from Roberto’s grasp. Suddenly, his fingers felt the links of a chain, and he gripped on to them with all his might. The sense of relief was almost dizzying. At least he wasn’t going to drown.
But there was still the problem of the rocks. Diego pulled with all his strength, but the combined weight of Roberto and the bundle was too much for his skinny arms. Roberto could see the boy tensing his neck muscles and clenching his jaw, oblivious to his surroundings. His feet were planted on bare rock, but just a few inches away was a carpet of dark, slimy seaweed. If Diego wasn’t careful, he’d step on it, lose his footing, and end up in the same situation as Roberto. Worse, Roberto corrected himself. The boy couldn’t swim.
“Watch out!” He coughed and spat out water as he shouted, so his words were barely intelligible.
Luckily, the waves had washed him to a more sheltered spot, where the current no longer tugged at him with such manic force. The boy drew the rope in, pulling Roberto to quieter waters.
When he finally felt seaweed beneath his feet, he heaved a huge sigh of relief. He could stand now but felt so weak that he could barely drag himself ashore. Eventually, he collapsed onto the comforting safety of a rock.
A lump of granite had never seemed so appealing. He felt rather than saw as Diego grabbed him beneath the arms and pulled himfarther out of the water, and then he lay back on the rock, snorting like an ox. He was shivering violently with the combination of the cold and the adrenaline that was coursing through his system. Next to him, the boy—also at the very edge of his limits—had collapsed in a heap.
A couple of minutes passed before Roberto opened his eyes. The overcast sky moved above his head, and a few cormorants eyed the pair quizzically, wondering no doubt what these strange creatures were up to in such stormy seas. Finally, he sat up.
He had come close to dying. Very close indeed.
But now, as he looked around him, he realized that his problems were far from over.
9
“Dope or Snow?”
“We have to get back to the beach,” Roberto panted as he stood up. “This is dangerous.”
