The Mermaid's Secret (5 page)

Finally I make it past the break.

I sit upright on my board and relax. The water is a sparkling blue all the way out here, not green and cloudy like the shallows. The island is a million miles away and I have the ocean to myself. I made it. I paddled through the boneyard and the breakers, and that's not something just anyone can do. But the feeling of contentment doesn't last long. I feel a throbbing in my leg. I look down. Blood seeps from a gash on my knee, mixing with salt water in a zigzag down my leg. I must have knicked it in the boneyard.

Blood and ocean.
Bad combo.

A dark shape rises and falls out of my peripheral vision. A fin? I turn and look. Nothing. Another dark shape appears for a split second, then vanishes. Shark? It can't be. Even if it is, sharks don't attack surfers in Maine. Never happens. Never has.
It's just a little chop
, I tell myself.

Paddle home, girl.
Jay's voice in my head.

A gust of wind flips the surface of the ocean into a million flickering ripples. At least, I think it's wind. It could be a school of bait fish swimming by, churning up the water from below. And where there are bait fish there are …

No!
I tell myself. I look left, right, and down, searching for dark shadows below as my blood trickles into the water. It's all a mind game out here—the sharks, the self-doubt. I know the panic it can lead to. I try to bury it, focus on the next set, double-check my bearings.

Tallest spruce.
Check.

Parallel to the last rock outcrop.
Check.

Another flicker of wind or wave or fin catches my eye. I could just head in now. Paddle to the sandbar, catch a smaller wave. Lie in bed tonight stewing on all the missed waves.

But I need to catch a wave. Just one. I need to give myself that. A birthday gift from me to me. If my five-year-old self could survive a riptide without panicking, my twenty-three-year-old self should be able ride one wave today.

As I watch the horizon (ignoring the shadows and flickers around me), a set works its way toward shore. Gorgeous rows of clean, unbroken lines.

The first wave is six feet, at least. Overhead. I'm too far out to catch it. The next wave is a little bigger, a little more organized. But a thousand lessons have taught me that if I paddle for an early wave and miss it, I'm screwed. I let it pass.

The next wave is seven or eight feet. It looks like it's going to break before it gets to me. I lie down and paddle like a maniac to get to the outside of this wave. It's peaked and is already breaking off to the right. I paddle, paddle, paddle, rising up its face to get over the unbroken shoulder.

As I make it over the peak, my board goes vertical and then slaps down against the back side of the wave. I keep paddling to get over the next one.

The last wave in the set is massive. Double overhead. The face is sheer and dark. A light green triangle at the top tells me where it will crest, where I need to be. I spin my board around. Three slow paddles. Wind drives a sharp spray into my eyes. Land disappears in the trough of the wave ahead.

All-in,
my mind screams. Five more strokes, hard and fast.

And then I feel my board lift and accelerate as it rises along the face.
Now or never.
My muscles know what to do. I put my hands flat on the board, arch my back, and pop up to my feet. Nothing but air below the nose. Then, the drop. Fast and terrifying. Instinctively, I lower my right knee, swing my weight left, and trim.

I feel the immense power of the wave beneath me.

Knees bent, one hand over each rail, I take the most perfect ride of my life. I look down the line at Tutatquin Point, its gray-white veneer towering into the sky. My position and speed are perfect. I am a rocket. I am a goddess.

Suddenly, the point gets smaller as the wave curls ahead of me. But instead of breaking down the face into a fury of white water, it curls like a Slinky. The sea is all around me, above me, below me, circling me. I crouch down into a ball. For the first time in my life, I'm inside a barrel. They call this the green room, and only a handful of people on earth have been here.

I run my fingers along the glassy face of the wave. All is silent, except the swoosh of fiberglass skimming the surface. Sun lights the water from the outside in, an emerald green, and it's oddly still inside, like the eye of a storm. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I crouch lower. But instead of shrinking, the barrel gets taller and broader and opens up inside. I stand up straight. My head remains clear of the ceiling of water.

This is wrong,
I think. Barrels don't expand; they contract.

I wobble slightly, get my footing back, and focus down the line again, savoring every moment, knowing that this ride will end any second.

But it doesn't.

I'm still rocketing down the line, the hollow barrel of water holding its shape.

This can't be right. Barrels don't last this long.

Suddenly I think of the sandbar. I must be getting really close to it. What if I break on the shallow bar? I'll do a face-plant into sand.

I ride for five more seconds. Ten. Fifteen. How is this possible? Twenty. Thirty. Ne'Hwas surfing isn't like this. Forty.

I still am encased in water.

A small aperture appears in the end of the barrel. The light there appears bright green instead of white. It's an optical illusion, like the way blood looks black when you're deep under water.

The tunnel opens more. The ceiling peels back, releasing me, letting in sun. When I look toward shore, I am past the tallest spruce, heading toward rock. The sandbar is behind me.

But that's not possible. How could I have made it over the sandbar? Waves break on the sandbar every time. Unless I was out there so long that the tide came in and I lost track of time.

The wave continues to carry me through the boneyard until I'm on a soft spot of sand. I walk over to the stand of pine trees and set my board down. Then I sit against a boulder on the shore.

My eyes sting with the salt and my head feels dizzy.

I'm totally confused. Did I pass out? Did I hit my head and get a concussion? How else can I explain riding one wave from out the back, over the sandbar, past the boneyard, all the way to shore? I look out and watch the break, noticing every wave rise and crash long before it hits the sandbar. How did my wave sneak past? Impossible. What did they teach us about concussions in the mandatory Red Cross classes at school? Lay the victim down, or keep them upright? One or the other.

I take in a long breath and exhale, pain crossing my chest. The next breath is shallow, like I can't get enough air into my lungs, so I inhale deeply through my mouth, but my lungs don't feel full.

A seagull on a nearby rock eyes me, then flies away.

I try to breathe, but I can't. I gasp for air. There isn't enough air on earth. I feel like I'm drowning on dry land. I push my hands into the rock and try to get to my feet, but my feet have stopped working. I can't feel my legs. I can't wiggle my toes. I'm paralyzed. Maybe I bumped my head, got a concussion,
and
broke my spinal column. I'm going to be a paraplegic. I'll have to live the rest of my life in a wheelchair.

Thoughts come rapidly as I try to figure out what happened, but then they disappear and the only thought in my mind is
Breathe
. I try to suck air into my lungs. Nothing.

Something deep within me knows what to do.

Get in the water!

Now!

I drag myself on hands and knees over rocks to the ocean's edge. Then I keep going. A force I can't name is taking me to the water.

The next wave rolls in and the white froth covers my lower body. My goddamn paralyzed lower body.

I keep crawling farther and farther into the water, my legs drifting uselessly behind me. As it gets deeper, I swim on the surface, trying to keep afloat. I'm going to die. Right here. Alone.

The next couple seconds are inexplicably peaceful as I feel my head and my body sinking below the surface. I close my eyes. I need to just let go. I will die here, and my body will wash up on shore where Kay's did.

I think about Kay, and how I will see her very soon. Do I believe in heaven? Maybe. Will I get in? Maybe not.

I sink lower and lower into the water. My chin goes under. My mouth and nose go under. My forehead. I close my eyes and try the dead man's float, but my body sinks.

Feeling the last desperate need for air, I inhale.

Cold water rushes into my mouth, down my throat, into my lungs. I feel a sharp pain and then I feel my lungs fill with …

Air?

I inhale again, open my eyes. I'm completely submerged, but the water is like air. I suck it in and feel it surge through my lungs. I'm not drowning. I'm breathing water. It's the most fantastic sensation I've ever felt.

But this can't be real.

This is the opposite of real.

I kick my legs, only they're stuck together. Instead of scissoring back and forth, they move up and down in a dolphin kick. I feel my knee, where the scrape is, and it feels hard. I look back at my legs, but it's all a blur.

Something flashes in the haze of water. I look toward the flash, and a little fish comes into focus. They're lit up in neon blue, like one of those black lights that Sammy had in grade school, where you turn off the lights and the whites seem extra white, while everything else is pitch-black.

I kick my legs and look behind me. There's a huge fish following me.

I stop kicking and all goes blurry again. I pull my legs in front of me and feel around.

My legs are gone. In their place is a fish tail. The fish that's following me is
me
. I feel scales, and beneath the scales, bone and muscle.

I feel around my upper body—my arms, chest, neck, back. My bikini is gone and I'm naked. I move my hands over my face and head. They feel unchanged, and at same time, completely different. I'm acutely aware of my tongue, nose, and eyes. They are all on overdrive. My nostrils are not exactly smelling, and my tongue isn't quite tasting, but they are sensing.

And right now, they're telling me to
move
.

 

F
IVE

Move!

The word isn't coming from my brain. I don't think it; I feel it.

I kick my tail, which stirs up a blizzard of bubbles and propels me like a torpedo. I am flying through the water. The rocky bottom races beneath me.

Vibrations pulse through my body, along my sides, and down my nerve endings.

I taste danger on my tongue.

Danger from what, though? I need to make sense of this.
Think.
I am swimming faster than humans can possibly swim. I am breathing water. I am a mermaid. I'm running from a danger I cannot see.

Ahead of me, the sandbar rises up to the surface, so I slow down. The vibrations intensify. Each shock wave delivers information, a piece of the puzzle. This one, a heartbeat. That one, a change in water pressure. The next, a spike in temperature.

Something is after me. The deep, primal part of my brain knows one immediate truth:
vibrations
=
danger
.

A million sensations bombard me at once, garbling my senses—I can see with the nerves along my spine. Taste and smell come at me from every direction. Sound is something I can touch with my fingers. They all add up to one thing.

Go deeper!

I scurry to the sandbar and claw my way over it, fighting against the force of waves crashing from above.

On the other side of the sandbar, I aim myself downward and swim. Down, down, down, into the deep space of ocean where light barely penetrates. I swim low and fast against the sandy floor, something telling me it's safer against the bottom, even though I can't see a thing. My eyes are blind down here. Up ahead, there's a movement. A fish is lit up in pixels of neon light. I make out the shape of a striped bass. Its fast-moving body is crystal clear.

Things in motion come into focus. An eel. A dogfish. A rock crab skittering along the sand. I see them all clearly just before they scatter to get out of my way.

My human brain can't wrap around what's happening. It's screaming,
This is too deep. This is not safe. Turn back.

I stop swimming and look up through the darkness to a pinprick of sun sending rays of white light through the water. I want to be in that light. I want to be in that human world. I swim toward it.

As I swim up into open water, the vibrations grow stronger, pricking my sides right into my spinal cord.

Stay down.

Instinct and logic are pulling me in opposite directions. My mind keeps telling me,
This cannot be happening
, but my body knows differently. My body knows where to go and what to do. It's being driven by something other than
me
. Instinct takes over. All other thoughts shut down, except the one that keeps whispering,
This cannot be happening
.

But the voice of instinct is louder.
Stay down. Find shelter.

Yes, shelter. Now that makes sense.
I swim back down into the dark, inhuman depth.

In the distance, a large mass appears through the hazy water. Visibility is poor, and the shape drifts in and out of my vision like a mirage. As I get closer, I see it's a huge rock formation. Fish of all kinds scurry around the rocks, appearing in pixels of light. I slow down and swim along the bottom of the ledge, looking for a place to hide.

The vibrations sharpen.

A hollow space in the rock appears in my blurry vision. I squeeze inside, my tail sticking out of the opening. Awkwardly, I pull my tail in and press my back against the farthest wall of the shallow cave. I try to slow down my breathing and calm myself. Think of yoga class. The hot instructor in the tiny shorts and perfect abs. Remember his words, his mantra:
In through the nose. Out through the …