Left Drowning(20)

The thought of all the work that lies ahead of her makes her even more determined to enjoy every minute of the summer. Which is pretty easy to do, considering the house has its own section of private beach. Blythe much prefers this shell-covered shoreline and cold, rough water to the perfectly smooth white sand and warm aqua water at tropical resorts. Maine feels real to her and much less showy. The boulders that are covered in seaweed, the barnacle-encrusted tide pools, and the salty air that invades every pore of her body: they are what make Maine special.

She walks to the end of the narrow dock and tosses her things into the old rowboat that is tied up. She throws on the still-damp orange life vest and easily starts rowing out to the square floating dock that rocks with the waves, her boat bouncing playfully in the water. Blythe loves being around people, but she likes her privacy almost as much and adores how this dock is like a private island in the middle of the cove. She reaches it a few minutes later and clambers on top of it, situating herself on her towel. At three thirty in the afternoon, the sun is still strong, but a slight chill from the cold water blows over her. She has her bathing suit on under her clothes, but she will try to warm up in the sun before she dives into the Atlantic. She kicks off her sneakers and removes her shorts, but keeps on her shirt.

Blythe lies down on her stomach and rests her head on her crossed arms. The sound. Oh, the sound of small waves lapping against the dock is hypnotic, and the sun burning on the back of her legs is nicely tempered by the ocean air. Bliss. The dock rocks under her, and she gives herself up to the will of the ocean, succumbing to the unpredictable rhythm of the water and her daydreams.

After what could be hours or minutes, Blythe isn’t sure which, she lifts her head, her content mood broken, but by what, she doesn’t know. She looks around. The rowboat is still tied to the dock. Nothing is amiss. She shakes her head. Blythe scans the shore to her right and studies the houses. Some are too far back or too shielded by foliage to see, while others are clearly visible. It’s funny, she thinks, the mix of tiny, somewhat rundown houses set next to clearly more expensive, nearly palatial properties.

Movement on the opposite shore makes her look straight ahead. Someone is walking slowly where the water hits the land. She props her chin on her hands. From this distance it is hard to see the figure clearly, but she guesses that it’s a boy about her age. He’s tall, with dark hair peeking out from under a red baseball hat. He has on tan cargo shorts, and no shirt or shoes. And he is carrying two buckets, one in each hand. She watches as he plods slowly through the sand, wades a few feet through the heavy low-tide mud into the ocean, and then empties the water-filled buckets. He pauses a moment, tips his head back, and stands still. Maybe taking in the spectacular day? Or maybe something else.

The boy leans over and refills each metal bucket with water. Slowly he stands and brings the pails to his side and begins walking, obviously weary, back down the shoreline where he’d come from. He keeps his arms slightly bent at the elbows, flexing his muscles to keep the buckets from hitting his legs. When he reaches what is probably the end of his property line, he plods back into the water and dumps his buckets again. For ten minutes, Blythe stares entranced as he repeats this ritual over and over. What on earth is he doing? Does he have some sort of compulsive disorder that required him to repeat mundane acts over and over until his brain is satisfied? Although she would hardly call this activity mundane. Buckets of water are heavy, even for someone with his strong build, and the repetition had to be tiring him out. Perhaps it was some kind of physical conditioning exercise? He could be a sports nut like her brother. She continues staring.

Twenty minutes must go by. His pace remains the same, but his physical pain is easy to see. He has to be hurting. She stands up and brings her hand to shield her eyes.

Ten more minutes.

Stop, she whispers. You have to stop now. It’s too much.

Who knows how long he’d been doing this before she noticed? This is insane. But the boy keeps going, focused and unfailing in his routine. Even when he stumbles and spills half of a bucket, he continues.

Jesus, stop! she pleads silently. Put the buckets down. You’re going to pass out. What the hell are you doing?

Finally he pauses, turning his back to her as he looks toward the trees. Holy shit. His back is badly sunburned. If she can tell from this distance, it is definitely bad. It must hurt like hell, or at least it will later. He continues looking toward the trees for a bit, craning his head to the side. Looking for something? Someone? He drops the buckets and leans over, bracing himself with his hands on his legs. Catching his breath, for sure. The boy moves toward the water, looking down as he wades in a few feet. He seems to be shaking his head.

When he raises his head, Blythe finds herself clearly in his sight. She should probably be embarrassed, having been caught staring at this stranger, but she isn’t. She takes her hand from her eyes and stays where she is. The boy is looking right at her. His exhaustion, his sadness, his hopelessness, they all travel over the water and rip through her. Something is very wrong here.

She lifts her hand and gives him a tentative wave. He returns the gesture.

Blythe cups her hands to her mouth. “Hi.”

“Hi, back!”

“Are you … okay?”

He puts his hands on his hips and looks off to the side for a second before answering. He calls back, “Yes. I’m fine.”

“What are you doing?” She tries to feign curiosity rather than concern. “With the buckets. Are you in training for something?”