Come to the Edge_ A Memoir - Christina Haag [85]
We reached the edge. He stood waist-deep in the calm reef waters, one hand steadying the stern. We were silent as we surveyed what lay before us. To the right, there was the wider beach, with jungle behind it and white surf pounding the shore. To the left, the Caribbean, the horizon, and a straight shot back to Treasure Beach. But below, huge swells rolled by, unbroken by reef and rock. That was where we were headed. John would drag the kayak farther out, but where he could still stand. This would place us as far past the wave break as possible once we dropped down. Then he would jump in behind me, in the steering position, and push the kayak off the reef. We’d be parallel to the swells when we landed, but he’d time it between sets and quickly steer the boat a quarter turn out to sea.
I bit my lip and watched the water rise and unfurl until it crashed on the sand of the larger beach. Then I remembered my leg.
“But what if a wave hits us? What if we capsize? I can’t swim in that.” My doctors had said yes to pool swimming only. And by the looks of it, I wasn’t even sure John could make it in that surf.
“That’s not going to happen.” He sounded more confident about his plan now that we were actually here. “We’re sneaking in from the side, not head-on. And look how evenly they’re breaking.”
It was true. The waves weren’t wild; they were rolling straight. And from our perch on the reef, there was nothing sideways about them.
“It’s our best shot. There’s no reef below. No way we’ll wreck. I know I can turn the ’yak. I can time it right. I’ll get us past the break. You just paddle and I’ll steer.”
It was a risk, I knew—a roll of the dice. But it did look less harrowing than our arrival earlier through the channel in the reef. And we’d survived that, hadn’t we? I looked at John. He was counting under his breath, as serious as I’d ever seen him, marking the time between wave sets. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set. I squeezed his hand, took the leap, and nodded yes.
He pulled the boat out a little farther and hoisted himself in back. Then, with his oar, he pushed us off the reef. Once we dropped down, the tip righted itself—just as he had said it would—and we began to make the turn out to sea before the next swell. But he had misjudged; the waves were much larger and the current stronger than they had appeared from the shelf above, and we soon realized that we were being dragged sideways to the shore, the prow in danger of heading toward the surf. If we were caught in the break, we’d be tumbled in white water and slammed against the sand. To avoid the danger of the reef, we had put ourselves at the mercy of the sea.
I heard his voice. He was shouting for me to keep paddling as he tried furiously to keep the tiny boat away from the shore.
Then, without warning, we were underwater, inside an enormous swell. Like a hurricane’s eye, like its very own world, it was silent and still. Time stopped. My eyes opened to unending pale blue. I was amazed that I could see everything. I looked to what I thought was above. My eyes widened: Ten feet, fifteen feet up, I saw a trail of light filtering down. Not white water—just the smallest ridge of curl. It meant we were beneath the crest, in its thickness, but it hadn’t broken. Not yet. It meant the boat was still righted and we hadn’t flipped. It meant hope.
Suddenly, there was pressure on every part of my body. We were surging toward the break somewhere to our right. I didn’t know if I could hold my breath much longer—the wall of water was endless. I panicked and began to push myself out of the boat, to swim toward the light, when I felt a hand on my back pulling me down.