Butterflies in Honey (Growing Pains #3)(113)

“Krista got caught in a wave.” Sean’s voice sounded foreign, even to him. “She got caught—I think I made it in time—”

“What? Sean, what the f**k are you saying? Is she okay?”

Sean told the story, breaking down halfway through. He had to walk outside, away from people, unable to stop sobbing like a baby. Kate barely listened to the whole story before she was demanding which hospital it was and making plans. The last thing she said was, “Call Cassie, Sean. You need to get this out so you can stay strong when Krista wakes up, because she will wake up, okay? If she made it through Jim, she can make it through anything, okay?”

Sean wiped his face and dipped his head. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t spoken an affirmative, Kate had already hung up. He did call Cassie next. And sobbed again while she stayed strong to talk him through it. He just didn’t know what would become of him if he lost Krista. There would never be another. Not like her. She had everything he wanted in a woman, and what’s more, everything he needed. She kept him grounded at the same time as lifting him up. She leveled his head at the same time as helping him accomplish his dreams. He saw a wife in her, a mother to his children, a future. Everything around him could fall down, but if he had her, he would be okay.

Sean sat and listened to Cassie praying.

~*~*~*~

Krista blinked the dim light of a hospital room. The smell was unmistakable, as was the uncomfortably hard bed. There wasn’t any beeping, which must mean she wasn’t on life support or anything too serious. The TV was on and the news was playing. A story about some dog that fell down a well was just wrapping up. The dog was saved. Hooray.

Next came a story about the larger than expected ocean swells that came in that afternoon. It must’ve been Saturday evening, then. She didn’t lose all that much time.

Seeing it on the news, the waves Krista was dealing with weren’t even the tip of the iceberg. Some beaches had record high swells. Surfers were drawn from all over the world to ride them. They were expected to remain until sometime on Sunday, but you just never knew with waves. It didn’t stop the avid surf lords grabbing a plane ticket or starting up their RV and heading out. Tourism in San Diego was booming.

The theatrically somber news woman reported two fatalities. Krista’s blood froze in her veins as the newswoman recounted the unlucky stories of one swimmer and one surfer that got caught. It was on two different beaches. They were both pulled out, but not in time.

Krista gasped as her photo took up the TV screen! The news woman talked about the heroic tale of a lucky female surfer who was pulled from the water in the nick of time. The words fell away as she saw a shaky image from a cell phone of a tiny head disappearing under a massive, tumbling wave. The waves were every bit as big as they looked from the ocean—no exaggeration from the memory. There was yelling and pointing while everyone strained to see where she went. The tiny head bobbed up again and started swimming—the recording was late in her foray.

The viewers at home, her being one of them, could see how hard and fast she was swimming for the shore. Harder and faster than she thought she had been. It hadn’t been enough, though. Krista watched in horror, a spectator at that point, as a giant wall of white bore down on the tiny swimmer. It ran her down and crunched over her.

The video got shakier and people started screaming. More than one guy was at the water’s edge looking for her, but not knowing where to jump in. That was until one guy came running into the shot. He was shirtless and lithe. Without slowing down, he dove into the water. Even from the distance, you could see his long, powerful strokes as he cut through the water as if he was born to it. His head bobbed, stayed down for a while, then came back up. It bobbed down again, came back up. He was fighting the waves and the walls of torrid water as he searched for the missing surfer. When he came up after the third bob, closer to the beach than when he went in, he had Krista in toe. He must have been the vice on her arm. It was a good thing she had given up her fight to the surface because she would have been kicking for the bottom instead of the sky.

Despite the hammering waves, the swimmer tugged her along behind him, having only one arm to head for the shore. He was slowed, but he did not look tired. The shaky cameraman ran toward the spot he was washing up on shore. Another surfer took to the water with his board to meet the rescuer. Everyone else vied for space like a welcome party, safely out of harm’s way.

A limp Krista was loaded up on the board, her limbs dangling off the side. If she wasn’t sitting there in a hospital, having been saved, she would think the girl was dead. She would think they were too late. The gasping of the news woman, the tsks of the news man—it was a tragedy they were showing. The ending wasn’t happy.

The procession was quick after that. Krista reached the shore and the swimmer scooped her up and hugged her close as if she was a recovered treasure; a priceless relic. Miraculously, her bathing suit was still on and covering all the important parts, because with the speed she was being transferred up the beach, no one would have bothered to cover her up.

New motto: When in the face of death, always be thankful for the small things.

The cameraman got a front row seat to see the swimmer’s large back hunched over a still limp and deathly pale Krista. It was Sean. Of course it was—she knew from the second he came into the screen. It still came as a shock, though. It was still unbelievable. First, that he was in San Diego when he was supposed to be in L.A., second that he found her, and third that he found her in time to heroically save her life. She had done a lot of stupid things in her life, but giving up on him had to be number one.