Page 65 of Holding On

I have to feel for the wave to recede again. I have no idea how many feet we’ve lost or if we’re heading in the wrong direction.

Finally, the wave recedes. This time, I turn my head and break surface, my lungs burning.

Maya grips my shoulders under the surface of the water. She’s staying calm. She’s trusting me to get us out.

That’s all I need to know.

I suck down another lungful of air and swim toward the cave entrance, feeling for the rocks I know and trying to locate myself in the darkness. I move swiftly for a third time and cover my mouth with hers while kicking off the rocky points, doing a kind of horizontal climb out of the cave.

The swells are high. I almost hit my head. I rise for a fourth time. There’s head space for us both now, and I pull her up. She’s choking, gagging on salt water, trying to wipe her eyes, sputtering, and catching her breath.

Light is fading outside. Twilight has spilled over onto the beach.

She looks at me now, her face barely visible, but she’s more alert. She grips my shoulders.

“Travis? What’s . . . going . . . on?”

“Now, Maya,” I say, and I feel her chest grow rigid. She’s holding her breath.

I push again off the granite boulders, this time not quite in sync with the ebb, and we rise quickly, then get pulled down again in a strong current when the wave recedes.

Her hands grip tighter around my shoulders. Feeling with my hands in complete darkness and trying to get us out of the narrow tunnel is almost impossible. I’m suddenly slammed against rock, and I twist, sparing her.

We rise again. There’s sky—we’re nearly out.

I start kicking hard, trying to keep her head above water.

There’s one more giant swell, and I brace myself against rock, holding on so we don’t lose ground. But this time, the wave recedes with power, pulling out too fast, and I can’t control our trajectory. I see the whale in my mind’s eye: that large chunk of rock looms underneath somewhere, invisible. I brace for impact.

It takes me from the side, and there’s an internal crack and searing pain. I grab her as the water rushes round us, pulling us toward the ocean.

We’re tossed out and spat into the froth. I stagger, trying to hold her up in chest-high water, frightened I’ve lost her. I can’t understand why she’s not speaking.

It’s still light out. The pain is so sharp in my left side that I can hardly stand. Every step toward shore leaves her less buoyant.

She can’t support herself. Her head is bleeding badly, and her eyes roll to the back of her head twice as I try to get us to shore. With every step I take, her body grows heavier and my side screams. We stagger onto the beach.

“Maya, I’m going to kneel,” I say, fishing around in my front pocket for my pen knife. The denim is wet, and it’s nearly impossible to claw my pocket with numb fingers.

I go to gently lay her on the small strip of sand between the cliff and the sea. I’m on all fours, trying to get the blade out.

She’s still tied to me, her back arched, her head hanging. Only her hips and legs are touching the sand.

I slowly, painfully, lower her to the ground and then work to cut us free of the hoodie.

She gasps and coughs and tries to stay conscious. When I cut the sleeves to the hoodie, she sinks in the sand.

Still on my hands and knees, I can only take small, quick breaths. There’s blood on my shirt, and I’m not sure if it’s hers or mine.

She has to get to a hospital.

My phone.

I’ll have to climb to the top to get coverage. There’s no way.

There’s a nicker.

Salty stands near the Dyson Trail, the lead rope on the ground. He dips his head and looks at me with one eye. I kiss Maya swiftly on the cheek and struggle to get off my knees and stand.