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How long had he been in the water? His feet and hands were numb, and he thought he might die of cold after all. He had looped the rope around the cone of rock in an attempt to relieve the strain on his arms. The tide was still rolling inward, with the mine straining against its tether, but the water was inching its way up the stone pillar, and waves were breaking across his shoulders as he clung to the rope.
How long had Carol been gone? How long would the rope hold? The moonlight allowed him to see the fuzzy outline of the rope as it passed around the boulder. He squinted to bring his eyes into focus. It was as he had suspected. The action of the mine, dancing at the end of its tether, was wearing at the rope. As he watched, several strands broke loose. He looked away, unable to maintain his focus. He was not about to let go; the rope burns on his hands meant nothing to him, but any minute now the decision would be taken from him. He turned to look at the dark expanse of ocean behind him. When the rope parted, when the decision was no longer his to make, what would he do? The tide was still coming in. He would have only a few seconds to get away, and the tide would be working against him.
A memory rushed at him from the back of his mind. A windy August day on the Welsh coast. He was a small boy, maybe nine or ten years old; those happy childhood years ran together in his memory. The sky was a bright blue, with the wind shredding the clouds into long streaks. The beach was crowded; August Bank Holiday, a day off for everyone. His mother held a towel up for him so that no one would see him struggling into his swimming trunks. Despite Mother’s protests, his father had eschewed the towel and quickly stripped off his trousers and underpants. For a moment his father had been entirely naked. Mother had laughed in shock and hurried to hand him his trunks.
The screaming started just as Father was pulling up the trunks to cover his nakedness. People were gathered at edge of the water. The tide was receding, leaving the people standing on a patch of damp sand. A woman was screaming and pointing. Several men plunged into the waves. Toby’s mother rose to her feet and sheltered her eyes as she looked at the activity. Toby strained to see, but even then his eyesight had been poor. He had taken off his glasses when they reached the beach. They were in the picnic basket, swaddled in a towel to protect them from the sand.
“What’s happening?” Toby asked.
His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “Someone’s child has been swept out on the tide,” he said. He shook his head in disapproval. “Why don’t people keep an eye on their kiddies?”
“Is he going to drown?” Toby asked. His inability to see the details of the disaster set him at a mental remove from the action, and his question was more academic than emotional.
His father continued to stare out to sea. “Those men will bring him back,” he said.
He squatted to bring his face on a level with Toby. “If this ever happens to you—”
“It won’t,” Toby promised. “I know how to swim.”
“It’s not a question of swimming,” his father said. “It’s all about keeping a cool head and not panicking. If you are ever caught in the tide, rising or falling, it doesn’t matter, don’t take it head on. Angle yourself across the current. You might end up a mile down the beach, but you won’t drown.”
He could still remember seeing his father’s face drawn close enough to be in focus. He remembered the sudden serious tone that overtook the joy of his day on the beach. Angle yourself across the current.
He felt the rope go slack in his hands. This was it. The mine, freed of all restraint, rode the crest of a wave and became a gray blur. He dropped the rope and turned his face across the breaking waves.