Page 34 of Holding On

Immediately, we’re swept up and away from the boat.

I take a deep breath and dive down under the waves. The idea is to set a forty-five-degree angle for both descent and ascent.

I didn’t learn this like Bryce did in SEAL training. I learned it in open water, trying to play Marco Polo with four older sisters.

Within half a minute, we’re at TheWinnow’s starboard. My legs start to get pulled under the boat, and I kick hard to stay clear while Bryce makes his way down to the three-step ladder. I swear that buoy is even louder.

She’s there too, trying to lend Bryce a hand while he’s yelling at her to stand back. A white sailboat at least forty feet in length has also broken loose and looms five feet above our heads, sliding down a wall of water. A flash of cabin light illuminates Maya for a moment, the barge rocks hard, and then she’s gone.

Bryce yells something at me. He reaches up, finds the bowline, and waves to Jackson. The unspoken plan is that I’ll grab the aft and we’ll hand off to Carlson and Jackson. But that’s changed.

I take a deep breath and dive underneath. All I can hear is the churn of the ocean. In my mind’s eye, I swim to where she fell, spreading my arms out in front and feeling the darkness for her.

There’s nothing. The waves are rolling to my right, so I swim with them a foot or two, kick up, and pivot down. In that moment, I touch something. Fingers. I grab her hand and pull up as hard as I can, slipping an arm around her waist. Her raincoat is like a giant sail, filled with water and holding us both down. In the darkness, she struggles hard to reach the surface while I try to wriggle her out of the rubber jacket, peeling it over both shoulders and yanking hard. In a flash, she understands what I’m trying to do, shrugs out of the rest of her slicker, and it floats free. I’m starting to feel the burn in my lungs. We both kick hard to the surface.

Mateus once told me that a drowning person is dangerous—they’ll fight like hell to breathe and push you under. As soon as we break through, I wipe her face with my hand so she can see. She’s coughing, crying, an arm around my neck, but she’s not fighting. We’re both gasping, and she’s trying to keep her mouth above water.

“I’ve got you,” I say in her ear, and her body trembles violently from the cold. She’s gagging on salt water, disoriented and looking around at the shore. Ten yards away, Jackson waves at us. He’s on his stomach, ready for a hand off.

“You’re okay.” I try to stay calm and make my voice steady in her ear. “You’re all good, right? Right?” She nods, spitting water from her mouth. Behind us, the white boat has broken, and a large chunk of the stern is moving toward us quickly. The buoy clangs clear and loud—the wind must be carrying the sound.

I make sure I stay between the wreckage and her view. Bryce throws the bowline, and Carlson starts pulling the boat close so the vessel can be secured.

I’m kicking hard, moving through water so choppy, I swear I touch the seabed every other wave. Jackson’s down at the dock ladder and reaches for her, though I don’t let go of her waist until he’s got both hands on her.

He grabs her and hauls her up like a rag doll. The guy is short but fucking strong. She disappears from view and then Jackson reappears, lends a hand, and helps me up.

I land on my knees, and it takes a second to catch my breath. It’s almost impossible to stand straight on the rolling dock. I throw her a glance. She’s sitting on the dock, shaking.

“Can you walk?”

No response means I sharpen my tone. “Maya!”

She nods, her body shivering from adrenaline or cold or both.

“Get to shore,” I whisper in her ear after I help her up. “Go!”

I turn to Bryce as he throws the aft line to Jackson. Jackson and Carlson start pulling the boat closer to the dock and the moorings. I toss the first spring line to Bryce and run a few feet and toss the second. As Carlson and Jackson slide the boat up against the pier, Bryce does the impossible, and with one hand on the The Winnow’s gunwale and one on the dock, he lifts his massive torso out of the water and rolls onto the dock, jumps to his feet, and starts hauling the boat in even closer. The guy’s a monster.

There’s four of us now cinching the craft tighter. The less space between the dock and the boat, the less room for damage, and less of a chance she’ll break loose again.

I slide the rope around the starboard aft cleat attached to the boat, wrap it once, wrap it twice, do a twist, and pull it through. Jackson watches me for a second and takes this lesson with him to one of the spring lines, the mid cleats. Carlson is wrapping the line on the cleat near the bow, with Bryce holding the boat steady. But there’s a fifth person wrapping the final spring line. It’s Maya, beyond drenched, thin arms pulling hard as she squats down and makes sure that line won’t give.

She didn’t leave.

As she starts to stand, I grab her and pull her back just as the piece of wreckage slams into the dock. We all crouch down for a moment to balance ourselves, but The Winnow stays put. Her mooring is sound.

Carlson gives a thumbs-up while I grab my shoes, and we scramble for the shoreline. We’re done. The whole thing took maybe ten minutes. With one arm around her waist, the other on her upper arm, I hurry to get Maya off the dock. There’s no way she’s getting knocked in again.

Just as we step onto concrete, a shudder reverberates, and we all turn around.

Jackson’s “Fuuuuuck,” is more than descriptive. A buoy, the one we kept hearing louder and louder, has finally made its appearance, crashing into the dock and lodging into sand and rock.

***

It only takes us five minutes to get to Carlson’s house. I’m vaguely upset that Maya’s riding in the car with him. Jackson knows where he lives, so even though we lose him at a traffic light, we arrive only five minutes later. The house, an older Cape, sits perched nearly at the top of a very steep hill overlooking the bay. In clear weather, the views must be spectacular. As the front door opens, we shuck our shoes and jackets on the porch, all dripping wet.

“Hang on a second,” says Carlson. He tosses towels to each of us, and we start drying off under his front porch roof. Lightning splits the air, crackling sideways, and the thunder is nearly instantaneous. I can’t help but search for Maya. It’s not until we step inside that I see her sitting on a chair with a wool blanket over her shoulders, sipping something hot and looking at the bay. In Maine, you never pack away wool blankets.