Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,55

step. You guys go ahead and save yourselves. If I get hungry, I’ll gnaw on a limb.”

“Shut up, you idiot! Here . . .” I bent over and gestured for him to climb aboard. “Get on my back.”

“Thanks, Coll.”

“I wish you were my big brother.” Erica looked over and smiled at me.

“No, you don’t,” I said.

Just ahead, we heard the muffled roar of water. We came around the bend and saw a deep pool fed by twin waterfalls—tall, explosive cascades of surging water feeding the plunge pool, the water, unusually high from the rain, sweeping in a strong, circular motion, a series of complex currents competing. At one end, the pool narrowed and opened up into rapids phasing into a fast-moving current that by the look of things—I could see light sparkling on the water’s surface off in the distance—eventually led outside the cave and onto the wider river.

There was a huge boulder near the base of the waterfall. I felt uneasy.

“Rosie, do you remember anything Mr. Morrison said about aerated water?” Mr. Morrison was our geography teacher at Andover and had led us on a few caving expeditions.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Rosie said. “What’s aerated water?”

“You can’t swim in it,” I said, struggling to recall the details of Mr. Morrison’s warning. “You need to be careful in a pool like this where there’s a waterfall. Especially when there’s something like a rock or a log—see the big boulder down there? Something about the currents making a hole in the water and you just sink to the bottom. Remember he told us the story about the guy in Australia who tried to swim out of a cave, but he drowned because it was aerated water?”

“No,” Rosie said. “I remember something about staying away from dams. Who ever heard of water you can’t swim in? Where the fuck do you come up with this stuff?”

“Tell me about it,” Bingo said, sliding off me and back onto the ground. “Collie, you’re like the Grim Reaper or something. Don’t be such a downer all the time.”

“Pointing out legitimate danger isn’t a character defect,” I said. “You guys are acting like Curly and Larry.”

“I guess that makes you Moe,” Bingo said as Rosie laughed a little too appreciatively.

I ignored them and looked around, trying to decide whether we should go forward or head back and wait until someone else came along who could help us.

It didn’t look good. The only way to avoid the pool and waterfalls was to go up to the source of the light shining on the water. Above us was a narrow limestone ledge, covered in moss and slick with water and wear. It wrapped around the tops of the waterfalls, gradually ascending to what seemed to be a series of openings beyond the rapids in the cave’s ceiling that I hoped were wide enough to take us aboveground.

But there was no way in hell Bingo could make it across with his injured ankle.

He read my mind. “To hell with it, I’m gonna swim out of here.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t take the chance. It might be that weird water,” I said. “There’s no buoyancy. You’d sink like a stone.”

“I can swim in anything,” he said, appraising the boiling currents.

“No, you can’t,” I said, a tone of desperation creeping into my voice. “There’s no discussion, Bing. We’re climbing. I’ll help you. Just forget about swimming.”

I held on to him as we made our ascent, the color draining from my hands, my fingers aching. I was afraid he’d jump in, so the truth was I was holding on to him for all I was worth. I think he knew, too, because he held on a little tighter to me.

“It’s okay, Collie,” he said. “I won’t do anything stupid. I could do it, though, you know, I can hold my breath forever if I have to.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Rosie and I were okay swimmers. And Bingo? He was the best swimmer I ever knew. He could hold his breath forever, started practicing breath-hold diving when he was a little kid after pretty much outgrowing the asthma that almost killed him.

Even I had to admit there was something magical about seeing him in the shallows along the beach at home, sliding beneath the water’s surface, barely creating a ripple, smooth and silent as the schools of silverfish. I’d watch for the fleeting rhythmic flick of long flippers—his only concession to equipment—as he made his descent, heartbeat and respiration deliberately