CHAPTER 13

I hit the water without a splash and keep going down.

You know what? Water is wetter when you’re wearing clothes. I feel more drenched now than I do in the bathtub or swimming pool.

This is not a useful thought. More of an isn’t it funny kind of thought. Like, isn’t it funny that when you spell the word wrong w-r-o-n-g, you’re actually spelling it right? And when you’re not spelling it w-r-o-n-g, you’re actually spelling it wrong.

Now is not the time for isn’t it funny. I’m underwater and running out of air. I kick upwards. When I break the surface, I take a giant breath, then another one. Hwooo, haaaa, hwooo, haaaa.

One more for luck. Hwooo, haaaa.

I’m used to looking down at the water from the deck of the ferry. Now I’m in it, and I feel short. Also alone. There’s the boat over there, moving away from me.

I wish I was a better swimmer.

Gale and I took lessons back in grade two, in the Vancouver Aquatic Centre. We both started as Guppies — the lowest form of swimmer. Gale went on to be a Sunfish and then a Salmon and then a Porpoise and then an Orca. Not me. It was all I could do to put my head underwater. I quit lessons after Guppy. I guess I didn’t think swimming was important. Gale went on to life-saving. He had a birthday party at the Aquatic Centre a couple of years ago and I practically drowned.

Now I’m drowning again. I move my limbs wildly to keep my head above the swell. Can I swim back to shore, or ahead to shore? No. If only there was a closer shore, a desert island complete with palm tree and an empty bottle to carry my SOS message.

This thought is as useless as all the other if only thoughts.

“Help!” I try to shout, but water gets in my mouth and I can’t finish the word. What comes out sounds like Heh!

I don’t think about how absurd these last few minutes have been. I don’t think how unfair it is that I’ve fallen overboard and the ship isn’t turning round to pick me up. I mean, what can I do about it? When the teacher calls a snap test, you can’t say, “No fair!” You can’t protest. You have to write it. In a way, life is a series of snap tests, and you have to keep on writing them. Don’t you?

With all the arm movement, I realize that I am no longer holding onto my little black dog. He’s gone.

Huh. Usually the dog shows up when I feel lousy and vanishes when I’m happier. I’m not happy now, so why is he gone? I guess I’m not sad anymore. I’m drowning here. I’m too scared to be sad.

Kick. Splash with my arms and legs. If only Gale was here, with his lifeguard skills, his life preserver and his smile.

If only I could breathe underwater.

If only …

I hear a trumpet blast.

Did you ever see a movie where someone is carried up to heaven by angels blowing trumpets? I think I saw two or three movies like that. I wonder if that’s what’s happening now. Did I drown? Am I dead? There’s the trumpet again. No, I’m wrong. It’s not a trumpet. It’s a foghorn, coming from the sailboat with the big Canadian flag that is heading toward me.

A figure in a blue uniform and captain’s hat leans out from the front of the boat and shouts at me to hang on. The bellying sail falls down like oversized pants, so the mast is bare. The Canadian flag is still flapping. The boat is almost up to me. The captain reaches out. I wave, which is a mistake, because my head goes underwater. I feel a strong hand pulling me up. Next thing I know I am on the deck of the sailboat and someone — the captain, I guess — is asking if I feel okay.

I can’t open my eyes. I feel a warm, wet cloth on my cheek.

“Thank you,” I try to say. The words don’t come out like that.

“Hey, Gus, what happened?”

How does the captain know my name? I open my eyes.

It’s not the captain.

It’s not a warm wet, cloth.

I’m not on the sailboat.