The Vicious Deep

Some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm. -Willa

Cather

I hear the first wave before I see it-

Hear the rumble of the sky that reaches down to the belly of the

sea, hear the clouds that appear out of nowhere. They churn and curl

inside themselves in big gray mouths across the sky. The sky that up

to a few seconds ago was perfect and blue.

I’m standing at the bottom of the lifeguard tower. The

white-washed wood is warm where I lean my arm. It’s supposed to be

mine and Layla’s shift, but I’ve given up my seat so she can sit with

Maddy. Together they sit up top in that way girls do when they’re

joined in a single purpose-and that’s loathing me with all their

evil-eyed, purse-lipped, cross-armed attitude. And I take it like a

man, because after what I did to Maddy, that’s the least I can do to

make things right.

I can’t shake the feeling of water stuck in my ear. But that could

also be because I’m hungover, which means I shouldn’t be swimming or

actually trying to save anyone’s life. I hate not showing up for work

or a meet. I may be a lot of things, but flaky isn’t one of them.

Behind me is a stretch of the Coney Island boardwalk, and behind

that are Luna Park, Nathan’s Hot Dogs, and the Cyclone. There’s

Sideshows by the Seashore and the unused parachute tower, which is the

best place to take a girl on a cheap date after all the rides are shut

down. I’ve come here every day since I can remember. There’s just

something in the air that makes you want to be here. It’s in the

screams and thrills of the rickety rides that have been running longer

than most people’s grandparents have been alive. In the food courts

that sell you questionable but delicious meat. It is beauty and grime

all mixed in one, and I love being in the middle of it. Plus, chicks

love lifeguards.

Chicks who aren’t Layla and Maddy-at least, not anymore. I can

hear Maddy whisper to Layla, and both of them scoff. A group of girls

walks past me. They’re the same bunch of girls who have been pacing

back and forth in bikinis too small for their goods, and on any other

day, I wouldn’t be complaining. They hold paddling boards with

Hawaiian flower patterns on them, even though their hair is ironed

perfectly straight and their fake eyelashes haven’t been touched by

the water.

I know what Maddy and Layla are thinking-that I’m enjoying the way

these girls tiptoe around shells, winking in my direction. Sure,

they’re regular-hot, but they’re doing the Lifeguard Catwalk from one

end of the beach to the other. It’s when girls are on the prowl to

pick us up, and honestly, I’m not the only one they’re checking out.

No matter what a lifeguard looks like, the girls just go nuts. They’re

past our station now and halfway down to Jerry, who isn’t exactly a

girl magnet, but, hey, lifeguards are the more naked version of

firemen-the girls just love the uniforms. In my case, the orange

Speedo.

Suddenly, Layla’s laugh cuts through the noise around us-girls

giggling on beach towels taking turns pouring baby oil on their

already browned shoulders, cops in a 4x4 giving some kids hell because

they’re drinking, two little girls fighting over a pink plastic

shovel. Layla’s laugh has a certain effect on me. It always comes from

her gut when she thinks something is really funny. When we were

little, we’d have contests to see who had the best evil-villain laugh.

She’d always win. I glance up at her, and my hungover stomach does a

flip. She smirks with her heart-shaped lips, listening to Maddy, who

wears a T-shirt over her bathing suit. I can practically feel their

eyes rolling into the back of their heads. Probably about me.

Something catches Layla’s attention on the shore. She lowers the

aviators she “borrowed” from her dad right to the tip of her nose. I

follow her stare toward some guy wearing only ripped pants and looking

like he just washed up on shore from a sinking ship. The water bounces

off his shoulders like light on glass. I really hate kids who wear

clothes to the beach. It’s the beach . If you don’t want to tan, stay

at home. That must be the reason she’s staring. He stands with one

hand blocking the sun from his eyes, scanning the crowd. What he needs

to look for is a pair of trunks and a towel.

I blow my whistle lightly, even though no one is doing anything

wrong. The little girls still fighting over the shovel think it’s at

them, and they stop, so at least that’s something.

That’s when my ears start feeling clogged and my head a little

fuzzy, like when I sit too long on the lifeguard tower without a cap.

That’s when people start standing up and looking out at the water.

That’s when people start screaming.

Behind me is the world I’ve known since forever. The sliver of sun

that is still out is shining down on us, like the big guy in the sky

is pointing a finger, going, There, down there, get ’em!

Around me are the first screams, the kind that start off at the

top of a coaster before you take the deep plunge because you’re

actually enjoying the pull in the pit of your stomach. Like the whole

world is pulled right out from under your feet, and even though,

technically, you’re safe in the harness, you’re still scared of

falling.

That was the first wave.

The second screams come from their guts-fearful, shrill,

run-for-your-lives screaming. It’s the biggest wave I’ve seen in

person. Not tsunami big, not in the way they teach us in earth

science. But for this beach, in the middle of June, in the middle of

the most perfect day up to one minute ago, it sure feels tsunami big.

Someone knocks into me as he’s running away from the water, red

towel in one hand and shoes in the other. The smarter ones abandon

their towels, their smuggled beer bottles, their half-built sand

castles, their sandy cheese fries, and their garbage, which they

would’ve left behind anyway, really.

They follow their instincts and they run away.

I catch on to the signal of whistles and blow my own. A little

girl with white-blond hair and a red face from screaming runs to me.

She’s cold and shaking, and I pick her up because I don’t know what

else to do. I look around, but it’s no use trying to find who she

belongs to. The lifeguard whistles mingle with the screaming crowd.

The sun that was burning my shoulders in that good kind of way is

completely swallowed by mammoth clouds.

A haze on the horizon separates the gunmetal gray of the sky and

the darkening sea. It’s raining miles away. Pinpricks of lightning

flash against the sky. The storm is racing to our shore. The little

girl hits my chest with her cold fists and points at the crowds wading

in against the pulling of the tide, like the sea has hands and wants

to drag them back in.

Between the undulating water and the stampede splashing off the

beach, I see a set of pale arms struggling against the current. She’s

close enough. I can make it.

Maddy climbs down the tower first.

“Take her.” I shove the little girl at her.

“What the-”

I grab the buoy and sling it around my neck as I run toward the

water. A whistle blows hard and clean through the noise. It’s Layla.

She climbs down the tower in the orange-and-white bathing suit she

hates to wear, her long, rich brown hair swishing in its ponytail. I

don’t know if it’s the chaos of the storm or the adrenaline rushing