By Charlie Fish

He looked out on the bay, wind whipping at his hair. From this vantage atop the low, jagged cliffs, he felt strong—as if he could pick up the crust of the Earth and hold it in his hands.

The sea looked still from here; even the pulse of the foamy waves seemed gentle, their sound drowned out by the hollering wind, though he knew the gentleness was a lie. Up close, those waves were heedless of man’s hubris, terrifyingly indifferent, powerful enough to carve rock.

He admired the riptide patterns. The water looked strangely flat where the current surged strongest. He knew the danger of those currents. He, of all people, knew.

As if echoing his dreams, for a moment, he thought he saw a body there, floating in the vast, unquiet sea. He squinted to look closer and felt the chemical surge in his blood when he saw that it was no dream.

There was a person there. A swimmer, bobbing along one of the riptide scars. It was too far to see for sure, but in his bones he sensed the panic—the swimmer was drowning.

He reacted at once, knowing he had no time to get his boat, knowing he would have to risk his life and swim out there himself if this poor soul was to have even the slightest chance of survival. The risk was unthinkable, but he already knew the cost of inaction, and he could not face that again.

Four steps at a time, he mountain-goated down the steep cliff-side stairs. He was at their base in two minutes, already out of breath. He shed his greatcoat and his shoes, stumbling on the painful pebbles, and cast himself into the waves.

The first wave threatened to smash him on the rocks, but he felt a superhuman fuel burning through his muscles, and he swam. He saw the swimmer again, and course-corrected. Two hundred meters. An easy swim in calm conditions, but for the invisible currents and the deathly cold.

He had always been a proud man. Proud of his rough means. Proud to make his living from the sea. It had been a long time since anyone but himself had shared that pride. He glanced up at the swimmer again. The person was face-down. Perhaps it was too late.

And then he was upon her. He reached to grab her—but at the last second, stopped himself. She lifted her head above the water and gave him a quizzical look through her mask. She removed her snorkel and said to him, “You ok?”

He tried to respond but could not catch his breath. She was almost motionless in the water, kept afloat by the lazy movements of her flippers and the buoyancy of her wetsuit.

The next few moments played out between them without words, but in a symphony of emotions. A flash of disapproval across her face, and he felt stupid, sheepish. Had he thought himself a hero? Had he allowed his regrets to define him? Then, panic, as he realized more than his ego was at stake. His muscles were tiring, his heavy clothes dragging him down.

Another disdainful expression from her, communicated only through a twitch of the lips, and she grabbed his shirt and started pulling him towards the shore.