She coughs, draped across it.
It can’t hold both of us.
I tread water. But I’m tiring. Fast. My clothes drag.
We need out of the rip.
Sideways.
I start swimming. Arms burning. The cord sears my wrist.
I lost Beth. I lost Ika.
I won’t lose again.
One arm, then the other.
I will not lose.
A hand grips my arm. I cough, choking seawater. I’m hoisted onto the end of a surfboard.
Holly still clings to the boogie board.
Trent’s hands. I know their feel.
There’s a tug. We’re moving—towards shore.
I’m spluttering salt. Trent’s pleading. “Say something.”
I gasp. “Know the truth. Grandpa knows. You know. We all know.”
Relief breaks in his voice. “Keep talking. They’re tugging us in.”
I blink. A rope coils around Trent’s ankle. It’s leading shoreward.
Up to his waist in the surf, Grandpa hauls hand over hand.
Mum clings to him.
Sara to her.
Moana clasping behind.
And her whanau, one by one, a living chain of hands, anchoring Grandpa as he tows us in out of the riptide.
sea holly
Where the salt meets the bloom. Where ache turns to joy.
We flop on the gritty shore, laughing, sobbing, wrapping one another in ferocious hugs.
Holly is safe.
Grandpa is safe.
Mum is safe.
Sara, Moana and whanau—safe.
