Cold water never used to bother me. When I was little—that is, properly little, all those years ago—cold water was more or less all we had. We would wash in it, and, when we needed to wash all over, there was always the sea.

And in the winter, when the sea was too cold even to stand in and splash ourselves, Mam would warm a pot of seawater next to the fire….

You see, all my thoughts go back to Mam—even now, when I am throwing my arms over my head, one after the other, trying to plow through the cold, cloudy water, and swallowing great mouthfuls of salty sea.

It is not far to the shore, but it takes me five strokes to make the progress of one in calmer water. The ocean lifts me up and swoops me down on massive waves, bringing me closer to the rocks that will split my skull. Like a wild animal, I kick my legs madly to give myself extra propulsion.

“Swim, Alve, swim!”

I hear Mam in my head, urging me on. But I cannot swim faster, or stronger, for the waves and the cold have stolen my strength; as I get weaker, they get stronger. I lift my head to take a desperate breath, and a wave top breaks in my face, making me inhale another lungful of seawater. I am choking underwater, and I become certain that that is where I will die. Like my father all those years ago, I will be taken by the ocean.

When I sink, the noise of the waves stops. The sound of the wind has gone; everything is silent, and peaceful, and dark. I feel something touch my arm: it is the sand, and I am being dragged along the bottom by the surging water, and surely it will only be a few seconds until I can feel nothing more….

“Not yet, Alve,” says Mam. “Not yet.”

Then, strangely, Mam’s imaginary voice becomes deeper and it is Rafel, my combat teacher from so long ago. His voice is in the water all around me:

“Remember, Alfie: you are at your strongest when you are at your weakest. When your enemy thinks you are beaten, that is when to strike. Find force from frailty, Alfie!”

Force from frailty.

My feet are touching the sand, my legs are bent, and I know that if I straighten them they will push against the sea bottom. From somewhere deep inside me, somewhere a thousand years ago, I find a tiny, scrappy remnant of strength, and with a final push I thrust upward to the air. Half a second more and I would have taken a fatal lungful of water, but my mouth clears the surface and I suck in a rattling, desperate breath that seems to contain my whole long life. Then a wave pushes me over again, but this time my knees hit the sand and I realize I can stand up. I suck in more air and cough up seawater, then another breath and I am on the beach, and I do not stop staggering, walking, running—anything to escape the devilish embrace of the ocean.

Breathe.

Cough.

Run.

Breathe.

Cough.

Run.

I have made it. I turn to look back at the water, the mighty foe I have defeated.

Heading toward me, out beyond the rocks, is an inflatable boat with a man at the helm.

Jasper.