Short story: White Water

Isn’t it lovely to swim in the sea…

You remember it like I do, don’t you? Like it was yesterday. The Australian sun must have gone to our heads. What fools we were.

We know the rule: always swim between the flags. But we wade in over the rocks. How enticing the Southern Ocean feels, as we push through spent waves. Not as cold as I thought it would be. You in your sunglasses; me in my new swimsuit. I’m showing off, striding in deeper, trying to impress you, pushing myself through the water. Thinking, I’m still the strong swimmer I was as a child. 

This is only the beginning. We met each other far from home, here Down Under, the other side of the world. In a handful of days, we’re saying the same words at the same time. And you follow me into the antipodean ocean. It’s thrilling; we’re laughing. Isn’t it lovely to swim in the sea? 

We’re waist-deep now, hesitating to dip our shoulders. The first wave surprises us, rearing up out of the blue. Bigger than expected, rolling in. I don’t have time to think. I suck in my breath, turn my back to it, breaking another rule. Surfers present their side to the waves. We didn’t know. What fools we were. The wave tumbles, a shocking violent surge. But we keep our heads above water and throw each other nervous smiles across the shifting swell. 

The current settles, a single swaying moment. I feel hot sun hard on my shoulders. We float, and doggy-paddle, a brief pause. But before I have time to capture the memory, I glance behind me. Menace bears down, taller than me, taller than you. Another great wide wall of water, cresting with white. I’m fighting to keep my chin up, legs peddling in the sucking current. I hold my breath, brace myself. I cannot look at it. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic. The wave hauls me back, thumps into me, over me, a deep, dreadful gurgling, bubbles and foam. A thick, cold embrace. My head, my eyes, everything fills with water, my face poking through the surface. Don’t panic. 

The wave knocks off your sunglasses. You swear. The retreating surge holds me, lifts me up, tugging me out. You call my name. You say, later, much later, I looked stricken. 

I fight against it, kick for my life. I can do better than this. I was in the school swimming team. I dig deep, thrusting my legs. My head dips under again, my feet pummelling, useless. I reach out my hand. I feel you grab hold of my arm at the elbow, as if you know exactly what you are doing. You pull and heave, pull and heave, and the water releases me, gives me up like wreckage. 

We stagger onto the beach, a panting rebirth, our soles sinking in wet sand. We try to speak, to say it’s alright, are you alright, yes, I’m alright. But we can only breath, ragged and sodden, dunked, and salty. The Aussie locals glance our way, the lifeguard on his perch must think bloody Pommie tourists. 

We spread our towels on the sand, lie down to rest. We talk it through. I’d persuaded you to go in the water, paid no heed to the flags. You lost your sunglasses. It is all my fault. But you own the blame: your decision. You could have left your sunglasses behind. You could have not gone in in the first place. You say, if we were an old married couple, you might have yelled at me, said it was my fault. But instead, you hold my hand, and we doze in the sun. After all, this is the beginning. Lying by your side, while the pitiless Australian sun dries the salt on our skin, guilt lifts from me as smoothly as a body giving up the ghost.

You remember it like I do, don’t you? Like it was yesterday. We laugh about it, later that evening, turn the tale into a near-death experience; we dine out on it, telling our friends, how we survived our own little tsunami. This is only the beginning.

There are many years ahead of us. But they pass too quickly: the wedding, close family and friends. Our own sweet house. You changing jobs. Me getting promoted. The appearance of our son. Two years later, another boy. The ups and downs of a normal life. Years rolling safely by. After all, we’re an ordinary couple living peacefully in a cold climate on the other side of the world. Far away from the dangerous Australian ocean. 

And yet sometimes, at night, I re-live it like it was yesterday. The wave coming for me, the drowning dream, shifting into nightmare; the weight of water, plucking my flesh and crushing my bones. I taste salt; it lingers on my tongue. Gritty sand grinding between my teeth. A lick of seaweed around my leg. 

You remember our yesterdays, don’t you? Whereas I simply want to forget. Fear settles in me, sails alongside me in my ordinary, everyday life. Do you know why I never swim in the sea and will only let our lads paddle in the shallows? I do battle with the terror, with something large and mindless, that last wave, heading straight for me.

Can you hear me? Because sometimes I feel you never listen. I am talking to myself. Time accelerates. Weeks, months, years blend into one. A fast-forward film. 

We see our boys grow and graduate, and we settle down – an old married couple. Sometimes I embroider the tale. I tell people about the time we braved the Australian surf, and they laugh indulgently. You mutter something about your expensive sunglasses. I say: just think, somewhere in that deep Southern Ocean, there’s an octopus wearing them. You say, just think, we should never have gone in, in the first place. Your blame turns a corner and guilt finds me again. You berate me; but lying on that beach you promised you wouldn’t. Yes, it is my fault you lost your bloody sunglasses, and my fault for so many things that followed. The kids glued us together, but now they’ve gone. We need to make the best of it. You remember that time on the beach, don’t you? Like it was yesterday. What fools we were. 

There’ll be no more trips to Australia; we’ll never see Sydney, the harbour, the glorious beaches again. And yet my dream often takes me there. I wake, tasting the sea, surging water drumming my ears. I’m still there. The tide lifting my body, carrying it away. I’m pummelled and battered, cold to my bones. No time to shout, or even breath before the next wave and the next. Until the last. I cannot fight. I dare not open my mouth. I have no idea the sea, the lovely sea, can do such things to me. To render me helpless. What a fool I am. It is not a dream. 

You call my name, and I spot them in the distance: the lifeguard, the Aussie locals, running across the sand. I think: this is only the beginning, and everything will be alright. But the watery horizon is immense, unstable, tipping over. 

I reach out my hand. The white water closes over my face – didn’t you say that I looked stricken? I can no longer see the sun.

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