I see her form rise and fall, and then she is gone, hidden by the curve of the wave.

The board vibrates under my feet as I move forward, getting my footing and balancing, my arms outstretched, legs bent. I hit my spot and feel the lift of the board. I lean a little right, the board responding, and we hit the swell and slide down, gliding along the surface, picking up speed, my hair whipping in front of my eyes, stinging my face. I bend slightly, resisting the urge to tuck my hair back, every movement on a board attached to consequences. Then we tilt, the entire world, the wave stronger, faster, than I had expected, and the board shoots from underneath my feet, and I am yanked by my ankle strap, my feet flying outward. Unforgiving water smacks hard against my back and I am yanked underneath, my mouth opening, a stolen breath captured before I am engulfed by ice cold water.

White noise.

The current is strong, unexpectedly so, and I tumble, pulled underwater, my eyes blinking rapidly as I am tossed around—the rough push and pull of water disorienting me, my struggle against the current useless. My lungs are beginning to burn, panic setting in, my foot pulled by my leash and I hope to God that it is pulling me toward the surface. The board should float, that should be the direction up. But my body is caught in a rip current and I fight it, kicking and clawing, black spots appearing in my vision, my lungs stretching and bursting in my chest. My hand breaks into air and I kick hard, my foot suddenly free, and suddenly I have too much to process and not enough oxygen to react.

I realize it all a second too late. A second before my face hits the surface, fins come slicing through the water, the yellow flash of my board, rubber-banding back, the pressing against the leash too great, its recoil effect headed directly toward me.

Impact.

PAUL

I cannot see her. The wave came, she stood, she rode, and then she fell. We all fall. I fall into five-foot monsters, the kind that eat up and spit out surfers like gum. It is okay. She knows how to fall, knows what to do if the current pulls her under. Knows to go limp and let it spit her out. But this one had a strong kick. I felt its pull, worried over its strength. But still. She will find the surface. I will see her bright yellow board, her mess of sunlit hair. I paddle forward hard, my eyes skimming, another wave coming, its back draw pulling me briefly away. Then there is a flash of yellow. Her board, bobbing to the surface. I pause, searching carefully, then frantically, for a sign of her body.

Dark blue expanse, occasionally dotted by colorful bits of surfer. White foam, dark seaweed, her yellow board. Nothing else. Dark blue expanse.

Then I see her suit, bubbling to the surface, facedown in the water, and my entire world ends.

I fly through the water, added by waves, at her board in seconds, my hands flipping her over, her body moving easily, without resistance. Without life. I pull her onto my board, bending down, undoing the velcro of her ankle leash, hesitating as I hold the cord. She will kill me if her board is lost. It is an extension of her, of her life on the water. We have fucked on these boards, kissed, slept on the water, and fought the demons in these waves. Then I push it aside and lean over her body. I pump at her chest, I breathe into her mouth, and I look to shore and wonder if I should paddle in.

It is a horrific decision to make. To continue working to save her life, or to take her somewhere where she might need to be. The shore holds paramedics, defibrillators, oxygen. Shore means at least two minutes of paddling. Maybe longer, my speed hampered by her additional body on the board. I pray to a God I have ignored for too long and exhale into her still mouth.

The first time I kissed her was on the roller coaster. Hard plastic underneath me, the scent of sunscreen coming off her skin, she had reached over and pulled me to her like it was nothing. Like it was natural that we would spend that moment, as strangers, exploring each other’s mouth. She had been so gorgeous, so vibrant. It was like God had pumped so much life into her that it was spilling out; she overflowed with it. Just being with her, in line, on that ride, her hand in mine... it was intoxicating. That kiss was my first injection and she became my addiction, from that point forward. Addiction made me come back when she told me about the other man. When she shared that I would be one of two, owning only half of her heart. I worked it out then, and I don’t care now. I only need her in my life. The rest will fall into place.

It isn’t working. I push against her chest harder, the wet suit slick beneath my palms, my movement awkward on the thin board, a large wave knocking me off balance when I lift from her chest. I look to shore and lay down, as gently as I can, atop her body, and paddle as fast as my arms will go.

I have paddled hundreds of miles. Accelerated bursts of speed to catch up to a wave. Long sprints to race another surfer back to shore. But never has my stick moved this fast. I gasp for air, my heart squeezing in my chest as I move my arms, listening, straining my body for a hope of air, a movement in her limbs, a sigh. Something. I try to calculate time, to know how long it has been, but panic sets in, and I push those thoughts to the side. I notice the blood halfway to shore. Beads of liquid streaming down the board, coming from her head. Do the dead bleed? I scream, the shore approaching, and heads look up. Feet move along the sand towards us and I clear the final distance ‘til it is shallow enough to stand, and I sweep her cold body into my arms.

Her lips are blue. Her face is slack. I have failed her. I hold her tight to my chest and run out of the water.

HACK SHACK: (noun) Hospital

PAUL

I have only ever loved four women in my life. The first two are dead. I have lost communication with my sister. I am praying fervently for Madd. The paramedics surround her, their red polos bent over, voices crawling over each other and all I can see are her feet, sticking out, pointing to the sky, in a way I have never seen them. She curls into a ball when she sleeps, her feet tucked, her head often on my stomach or my arm, her mouth curved into a smile even when she is sound asleep. They push me aside, won’t let me close enough to see, but I can hear their words. There is a siren in the distance, and all I can do is thank God that we are in Venice. Where there is medical staff on the beach, ambulances around the corner. Not up in Lunada or out in Malibu where empty mansions would quietly watch her die.

There is a cough and my heart leaps. More coughs. Hard, hacking sounds that she has never made, the type of sound that must come from a grown man. Her foot moves, and I pray to God a medic didn’t bump it. An engine rumbles, and I am pushed aside once again as an ambulance pulls onto the sand. The last thing I see is her limp feet as she is placed on a stretcher. They wouldn’t load a dead person on a stretcher, wouldn’t send them in an ambulance.

Right?

I get the attention of an EMT, grabbing his arm when he shuts the ambulance doors. “I’m her boyfriend. Can I ride with you?”

The man turns, his thin face looking me briefly up and down. “They won’t let you in the hospital without a shirt and shoes. We’re taking her to Venice Regional. Why don’t you grab some clothes, for you and her? Just in case. Also, if she has any identification, numbers of friends and family... grab that type of thing and meet us there.” He moves around me and opens the passenger door. I turn, my feet slipping on the hot sand, and run. Past familiar faces, past a dread headed stranger who is examining my board, jumping over a handrail, my feet pounding a path that I have taken many times before. With Madd and without her. I round the corner to an alley and bump into a man’s chest, stumbling past him, ignoring his curse. Two blocks. One block. Then I am taking the stairs, knocking over the ceramic frog that Madd brought back from Tijuana, grabbing the key and turning it in the lock.