Shipped(33)

Graeme blinks. “So we’re friends now?”

“Whoa there, slow your roll. I never said anything about friends. We are… professional colleagues.”

“Acquaintances.”

“Friendly acquaintances,” I correct.

“Competing for the same position.”

“May the best person win.” Nodding firmly, I stick my hand out. He gives it a brisk shake. His grip lingers… two seconds, three seconds… He doesn’t let go. Neither do I. Warmth floods my cheeks and my heartbeat kicks into high gear. Graeme’s nostrils flare and I swear he leans closer a fraction.

“Do we have any beginner snorkelers left?” Gustavo booms from the front of the mudroom. “Last call for beginner snorkelers. Those doing the deepwater snorkeling, sit tight. Disembarkation will begin in five minutes.”

Pulling my palm out of Graeme’s hand, I clear my throat. “Beginner snorkeling, that’s me.”

He slides me a sheepish grin. “Me too.”

This is fine. Graeme and I can spend time in each other’s company and act like civil adults, no problem. Lingering handshakes aside, we don’t have to be buddy-buddy. Today I can focus on, you know, not drowning and he can focus on… whatever it is that Graeme thinks about.

We shuffle to the front of the room and get in line for disembarkation. We end up boarding the same Zodiac but sit on opposite sides. I steal a glance at Graeme from behind my sunglasses, but he doesn’t seem to notice; he’s checking settings on his camera.

Engine roaring, we zoom back toward Espa?ola Island, this time to Gardner Bay. With every wave we splash through, my stomach knots tighter and tighter. The fact that I’ll be swimming in the ocean—snorkeling—in a few short minutes has my lunch churning in my gut like concrete in a mixer.

When we slide out of the Zodiac and wade through the surf onto the beach, I find a spot on the sand to drop my towel and equipment. With a little salute, Graeme claims a spot on the far side of the passengers, giving me plenty of space. A naturalist separates us into different groups for a basic snorkeling lesson, and after about ten minutes we’re sent into the water to practice.

This is it. Time to face my fear. My mouth turns dry and my heartbeat kicks into a gallop as I sit to slide my feet into my fins at the surf’s edge. The ocean is a clear, picturesque turquoise—vastly different from the blue-brown waters of the lakes at home.

A flurry of feathers zips across my vision. I squawk. Something small and brown lands next to me—an Espa?ola mockingbird, one of the island’s famously friendly residents. It hops closer, an inch from my fingers splayed in the sand. “Hi, buddy.” It tilts its head, its long curved beak twitching this way and that as it examines the silver ring on my middle finger. “Do you think I can do this?” I whisper. With a ruffle of feathers, it pecks at my ring before flying away. I take that as a yes.

Graeme comes up beside me, kicking up powdery white sand. He stands for a heartbeat, gazing out over the ocean. “You don’t have to snorkel, you know. You can still change your mind.”

“I’m fine. I got this.”

“All right then.” With a shrug, he pulls his mask over his eyes and wades into the water.

My nerves crackle and my skin feels tight and itchy as I stand and inch my way closer to the water. Foamy blue-green waves lap at my ankles as I back into the surf so I don’t trip over my fins. Christ it’s cold. No wonder they gave us wet suits. I focus on my chattering teeth as I awkwardly shuffle through the water until it reaches my waist.

Okay. This isn’t so bad. I can do this.

A handful of guests dot the shallows alongside me. Some are already floating in the water, twirling hands or paddling feet. An older woman next to me tentatively lowers her head then pops up, breathing noisily through her snorkel. Farther down, Graeme swims gracefully, facedown, perpendicular to shore. Show-off.

If he can do it, so can I. Adjusting my mask, I put the snorkel’s rubbery plastic in my mouth. Slowly, I crouch. The water is murky from all the sand that’s been stirred up, and I lower my face down, down, down…

Water rushes into my ears and my face is underwater. Past blurs with present and oh my God my face is underwater I can’t breathe, I CAN’T BREATHE!

I jerk up and flail, water splashing. Spitting out my snorkel, I suck in deep, crisp lungfuls of oxygen. I press a hand to my aching chest and force down the panic. It’s not real, this crushing suffocation. I have a tube to breathe through. I’m standing in shallow water. I’m okay. I’m not drowning.

I close my eyes and find my center—the smoldering coal inside me that fuels every ounce of ambition and drive and longing I have. I won’t let my fear rule me. I won’t.

Replacing the snorkel, I try again. But again, panic swamps me and I stand. I try again and again and again. And again.

I look around; all the other beginners are snorkeling now, paddling around the shallows, breathing easily through their tubes. Why can’t I do it? It’s not reasonable or even rational, this knee-jerk reaction. I can breathe through my snorkel. I’m not drowning. So what’s the problem?

“You need to relax,” Graeme calls from somewhere over my right shoulder.

“Easy for you to say.”

I replace my snorkel and dip my chin into the water experimentally. Maybe if I submerge by degrees…