The cable car remained at the top, inert. But the woman in the white dress was on her feet now, hatless, running, golden hair streaming, arms spread wide. Her mouth open too, as she raced for the water.
I was too far to make out the words, but I could hear her scream and the tone was unmistakable: panic.
The little girl in the pink bathing suit hadn’t budged, and the orange shovel was still in her hand. But no sign of the naked boy.
Then I saw him. A little white dot bobbing in the water, maybe twenty yards due north of the kayak.
Just a towhead, no arms. Bouncing like a ping-pong ball, so insignificant that I might have mistaken him for flotsam—a stray bit of styrofoam.
The golden-haired woman ran into the ocean just as the ocean swelled and the boy disappeared. I rowed toward the spot where I’d spotted him. Saw the riptide—tight, luminous, funneling.
No sight of him.
The woman was in the water. The little girl had gotten to her feet and was toddling after her.
I began rowing frantically, found my progress too slow, wormed my way out of the kayak and dove into the icy water.
Even a quiet ocean can make a man feel weak. This ocean cared nothing for my self-esteem.
I dove, stroked, dove, stroked, fixing my eye on the spot where the boyhad gone down. Thrown off by the rips and by waves, now freshly stoked by a full-force wind. The funnels weren’t strong enough to pose a danger to someone of my size, but they slowed me down, made it harder to focus on my destination.
I swam as hard as I could, got close to the spot—still no sign of the boy—there he was, ten yards farther out, face whitened by sunlight, bouncing—no sign of his arms, but he seemed to be staying afloat— treading water, good swimming skills for his age, but how long could he last? The water was icy, and I felt my own muscles clog. I threw myself into the currents, concentrated on keeping his blond head in my sights. Watched helplessly as he went under again, and when he resurfaced he was five yards farther from shore—being rolled out to sea, slowly but inexorably. The woman’s screams sounded behind me, audible above the roar of the tide.
I changed course, widening the angle of juncture as I estimated where the rips would take the boy and swimming toward that point. Thinking about all those drowned kids I’d evaluated at Western Peds. Active little boys, mostly. Survivors with damaged brains . . .
I reached the spot. No boy. Had I miscalculated? Where the hell was he? A quick glance back at the shore told me I hadn’t lost my bearings— the woman in the white dress was swimming too. But she’d covered only a third of the distance, was having trouble as the garment bloused about her like a deflated parachute. Behind her, the chubby little girl edged toward the water. . . .
I started to warn her, caught sight of the boy’s head, then his entire body—fifteen feet ahead—tossed like a scrap of kelp as a wave pushed him up and dunked him out of sight, and now he looked scared. I raced toward him, only to see gravity return him to the depths yet again. His arms were thrashing wildly—losing control.
Flinging myself across the riptide that had snared him, I reached out, got hold of wet hair, a skinny arm, then a small, bony torso that writhed in my grip. Circling his body with one arm, I held his head above water and began paddling back toward land.
He fought me.
Kicked my ribs, butted my chest, shouted in my ear. Tiny teeth bit down on my earlobe, and it was all I could do not to let go. Strong for his size, and despite his ordeal he was feisty. Growling and spitting, intent on chomping my ear again. I managed to pinion both his arms and forced his head away from mine using my chin as I continued toward the beach. He howled and bucked and butted his little skull against my collarbone.