The Water Keeper(39)

From Cocoa, Merritt Island encroaches on what was once the wide water of the Indian River and narrows the channel, offering protection from the wind. With the water smoothing out, I eased the throttle forward once again and leveled out at forty-five mph. We were skimming across the water.

We passed Cocoa Beach, Patrick Air Force Base, Satellite Beach, and into the waters around Melbourne and Palm Bay when I finally throttled down to thirty. Clay had started coughing, and I wondered if my speed had been the cause or his singing.

Either way, slowing down seemed to abate it.

Making good time, we put Palm Bay, Malabar, Sebastian, and Winter Beach in our wake. At Vero Beach, the IC narrowed and congestion picked up. We encountered several boats moving north and fishermen returning from a day in the mangroves.

Racing daylight, I navigated the wakes of oncoming vessels as best I could, but they pushed Clay around more than I would have liked. Were it not for the beanbag, he wouldn’t have made it. Vero Shores gave way to the no-wake zones of St. Lucie and Fort Pierce. Passing beneath the A1A fixed bridge and cut free from the no-wake tether on the southern end of St. Lucie, I glanced over my shoulder and realized I was losing in my race against what remained of the sun. I pushed the throttle well forward and didn’t slow again until we passed back under A1A at Sewall’s Point, which in my mind marked the beginning of Stuart.

With darkness falling and boats dotting the waterline with their red and green running lights visible, I knocked the engine out of gear and glided along the surface of the water. Summer seemed excited. Both by the day behind us and by the possibility before us. We’d made good time and covered a lot of ground. Gone Fiction moved with the current in the now clear and open waters of Stuart. Hutchinson Island sat off to our left. As did the inlet that led out into the Atlantic. In between us lay an underwater sandbar that stretched for the better part of a half mile and appeared at low tide—a favorite party destination for boaters and jet skiers. Sandbars like that were much of the reason folks around here owned boats.

With the boat floating along with the current, I led Summer to the back of the boat, where she stood unsuspecting and expectant. Without comment, I pushed her into the water. This even surprised Clay, who stood, grabbing the T-top for support. Gunner ran to the back of the boat and barked while Summer thrashed in the water. When her head bobbed to the surface of the water, her hands scraping the air like an eggbeater, I said, “Swim, Summer.”

She was screaming, thrashing, and choking. Out of her mind. The current was pulling me farther from her, so I turned the wheel and beached the bow on the sandbar she couldn’t see and dove in. Summer was sinking.

I lifted her hips, forced her head out of the water, and said, “Summer . . .”

For one clear instant, her frantic and fearful eyes found mine. “Just swim.”

Then I let go.

I don’t know if it was Broadway and dancing, or the fact that I’d let go and she was so angry she just wanted to punch me in the face, or if it was unbridled fear. Whatever the cause, Summer began kicking and pulling—treading water. And when she did, her face and head broke the surface like a bobber. Where she stayed. First one breath, then two, then several. Realizing that she wasn’t sinking and not going to drown, she began involuntarily rotating in a counterclockwise circle. When she reached six o’clock, she saw me, and the excitement of actually swimming faded away from her face. Making way for anger.

She spoke hastily. “I don’t like you.”

“I know.”

She continued to tread water.

I moved two steps away from her. “Swim closer.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like you.”

I took two more steps away, increasing the distance and her sense of insecurity. “Closer.”

Reluctantly, she dog-paddled her way closer. Not close enough to touch me but almost. When she finally spoke, there was no humor in her voice. “You’re an evil man.”

“Put your feet down.”

She looked confused. “What?”

“Put your feet down.”

She stopped kicking with one foot and reached. When she did, she quickly touched bottom. Putting both feet on the sand, she quit paddling with her arms and stood still, the waterline at her collarbone. She stood, hair matted across her face, staring at me. A vein had popped up beneath one eye. I reached out and tried to push her hair back, but she slapped my hand and did it herself.

“You okay?”

She shook her head. “No.”

I waited.

“You made me pee myself.”

I laughed. “Well, no one but you and the sharks will ever know.”

“Sharks!?” She launched herself off the sand and immediately started treading water again, but this time her movements were twice as fast. “Where?”

“All around.”

“You being serious?”

I was laughing. “Yep.”

She started inching toward the boat. “Get me out of this water.”

“Summer.”

She turned and looked at me. And when she did, she was almost smiling.

I stepped closer. “You were swimming.” She put her foot down, then the other. This time she let me push her hair behind her ear. “All by yourself.”

She smiled but reached out with her foot and those muscled toes and pulled a patch of hair from my leg. She raised both eyebrows. “You ever do that again and I’ll—”