as buoyant as I used to be. Does age make you sink faster? Do carbs?
Okay, this isn’t good.
I scan the surface of the water again, hoping to find either the man who brought me into the stupid fucking ocean or a conveniently located platform to stand on, but I see neither.
Big and bold and overbearing, the wave makes it to me, crashing over my head as I take a huge last gulp of air. I immediately start fighting for the surface, but I can’t find it. I touch sand on what must be the ocean floor and flip my body so I can push off with both feet.
I fight and kick and claw my way to the top because there is no way I can look people in the eye in heaven if I know how absolutely stupid of a reason—trying to meet up with a guy I’ve dubbed Bachelor Anonymous for a freaking newspaper promotion—I died.
I’m not going down for useless pop culture!
I break through the top of the water and suck air into my lungs savagely, but it isn’t long before another wave crashes over my head.
Why would anyone swim in this ocean? Why? It’s a goddamn death sentence!
Salt water goes up my nose as I struggle for the surface again and burns a path straight to my brain where realization officially sets in.
I came into the water to save the life of a stranger, but chances are looking a little too likely that I’m going to drown before I even find the guy.
Jake
Morning swim-cardio completed, I move on to some of my lung-capacity exercises, slowly increasing the time I spend underwater one fifteen-second increment at a time.
I do it all for fun now, but I used to need the ability to ensure I came home alive. Something about that stuck with me, I guess, because I can’t start my mornings without swimming in the ocean. Clearly, I’d never be able to move away from the beach.
Timing the waves, I go under again, this time for a full minute, resting on the sandy bottom and taking in everything around me.
Thankfully, the water is pretty clear here, and after years of training, the salt water barely even burns my eyes.
A school of fish swims by, unaffected by my presence. The sound of the ocean’s churn is quiet, but even from the floor below, you can feel the power of each wave.
Something about it recharges me with the energy I need to face the day.
My underwater watch blinks, signaling I’m at the end of my interval, and I stand up and push off the bottom before swimming for the surface.
I breach the barrier of the water and take a deep, satisfying pull of air to fill my lungs once again. I feel invigorated and ready to go again, but I do my due diligence and give myself and my lungs the recovery time I know they need by floating on my back in the hollow of the swells.
Eventually, my timer goes off and I repeat it all again, over and over until I can’t take it anymore.
I’ve just crested the water after my two-minute dive drill when I unexpectedly see the head of a woman disappear under the barrel of a wave. I’m always out here alone—I make a point of it by being here so early. But something feels off about her presence, and I’m immediately on alert.
I scan the surface, waiting for her to reappear. It takes much longer than I’m comfortable with, and when I finally catch sight of her, it’s painfully obvious that my comfort level is the least of our worries. Her arms flail helplessly as she fights for purchase on the water’s top, and when that doesn’t work, she disappears to the depths of yet another wave.
Son of a bitch. She’s struggling.
In my prime as a Navy SEAL, I was able to hold my breath for more than three minutes at a time, but as I’ve aged, my ability has sloped off. Still, I make it a habit to train every morning—to maintain both my lung capacity and real-world training so that I can still stay underwater longer than any average person.
I jump into action, swimming in the direction I last saw her and waiting for the eddy from the wave to recede. I go under quickly, opening my eyes to search for her. She’s at the bottom, rolling around and trying to make sense of her body. Her clothing is baggy and soaked,