Page 6 of The Scent of Salt & Sand

“Fine, fine—I’ll concede as long as you don’t tell the German that I’m avoiding her walk. You know how she gets.”

“Deal. See you in a couple days. Unless you want to jog with me tomorrow?”

“Uh, hell no. Jogging sucks worse than hot yoga, which is why I choose hot yoga. Want to skip the destruction of your knees and join me instead?”

“To quote a genius, uh, hell no. See, the thing about hot yoga is that it is too fucking hot. See you Wednesday night!” Dean’s wave took in Kait, Charlie, and the rest of the bar. The regulars waved back and called their goodbyes. Dean exited on a tide of warmth and familiarity, which only made the brisk bay breeze seem even colder than usual. “Summer in SF is TFF—too fucking frigid. But I’ll bet this month’s pay there are a bunch of crazy swimming people in the bay,” he muttered as he shivered and zipped up his leather jacket.

Dean kicked into a quick jog to cross Beach Street, dodging an early morning trolley car, and then cut across quaint Aquatic Park, heading for the nearby Hyde Street Pier. It was only a little past 8:30 A.M., but already the walkway following the half-moon beach was busy with joggers and dog walkers. There was even an elderly T-shirt vendor beginning to set up his wares.

“Ohayou gozaimasu, Officer Kent-san. Off to make your count?”

Dean nodded and smiled at the old man. “Ohayou, Hikaru. Yep, just keeping it safe out there.”

“You know, you may be more superstitious than my old Baba—and that takes some doing,” said Hikaru.

“Baba—that’s ‘grandmother,’ right?”

“Hai!” Hikaru smiled and nodded. “You’re doing well with your Japanese lessons.”

“I’m too stubborn to let your language defeat me.” Dean smiled back at the old man.

“Ah, yes, remember if you fall down seven times—”

“Get up eight.” Dean completed the ancient saying.

“Very good, very good.” The old man waved Dean away. “Now get on with your count.”

Dean followed Hyde Street past the beginnings of San Francisco’s unique mixture of touristy shops, restaurants, and busy locals that made up the Fisherman’s Wharf area. It was still early enough for it to be fairly empty. He slowed to a stroll as he passed under the arch that proclaimed HYDE ST. PIER in big, block letters. Picking a spot just astern of the Balclutha, a meticulously restored old square-sailed ship that was now a floating museum, Dean leaned on the dock rail, focused on the section of the bay known as Aquatic Park Cove, and began his count.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,” he rattled off quickly under his breath. Dean’s eyes searched the morning water. “Twelve,” he began, and then frowned. “Cancel that—it’s a sea lion. So, eleven crazies. Big number, even for a Sunday morning. Maybe they didn’t get the memo that it’s fifty fucking degrees out.” He studied the swimmers, shaking his head with the mixture of curiosity and confusion they always evoked in him. “Huh, looks like several of them are women. Now that is crazy. As Kait would say, women usually have more sense than that.” A seagull landed near him and made a scolding sound. “What? They can’t hear me. Plus, they gotta know they’re crazy.” Or maybe I’m the crazy one. I’m out here in the cold counting swimmers when I could be inside with Kait counting Irish coffees. Why the hell do I think counting them will keep them safe?

But Dean knew the answer, though he didn’t speak it or the question aloud. He could still hear the echo of his father’s voice in his memory—he could still see that dark blue uniform and the wide black braid that had stretched proudly down the length of his father’s SFPD uniform. Going to count it out, son. Going to count out all the stores and restaurants and blocks on my beat. Going to count them out to keep them safe.

It hadn’t worked for his father, but somehow the counting had stuck with Dean, and morphed into the crazy swimmer count. So far, it’d worked for him. So far.

Dean shook himself. No. Dark thoughts had no place in this bright, beautiful morning. Scanning from the cove to the dock, Dean walked slowly past the Balclutha, making his way to the end of the pier.

Alcatraz was there, sitting in the middle of the bay like a roughly hewn ocean jewel. Though he’d been born and raised within a five-mile radius of Fisherman’s Wharf, Dean had never visited Alcatraz. He understood the public’s fascination with the island—it was a piece of living history. It was also a prison. Dean was thinking of the tide of tourists that flowed through The Rock every day when movement in the water just a few yards off the end of the pier caught his eye.

Dean focused on the lapping cerulean waves, expecting to see the slick, brown head of another sea lion. Instead, a curtain of strawberry blonde hair fanned around a floating body. Dean blinked hard and squinted. The curtain of hair lifted, and for an instant he saw alabaster skin. The body seemed to spasm—he was sure he heard a gagging cough—just before it relaxed back down into the water.

“SFPD! Call 911!” Dean shouted at a fisherman who was lazily casting a line not far up the pier. He ripped off his jacket, kicked off his boots, and, with zero hesitation, dove into the frigid water.

The cold cut him like a blade. Dean expected it, though. Ignore the cold. Concentrate. Get to the vic. Ignore the cold…ignore the cold… played over and over in his mind as Dean stroked against the waves. He lifted his head, taking in air and blinking salt from his eyes. And he saw her! He battled the waves, stroking five, six, seven more times.

“Got ya!” Dean snagged her outstretched hand, and then the water exploded in foam as the body came alive. In a tangle of hair and spray, she surged away from him, kicking out with such ferocity that the ball of one of her feet caught him in his stomach.

“Stop! Let me go!”

Too busy trying to gulp for air while he kept a grip on her wrist, Dean let the young woman pull him with her as she flailed hysterically and tried to get free.

“Wait!” Dean gasped. “SFPD—I’m here to help.”

“Let me go!” she repeated, though she’d stopped kicking out at him.

“I’ll let go if you can show me you’re not drowning.” Dean spoke quickly between mouthfuls of seawater.

She immediately stopped struggling. Then she tossed back her hair and looked Dean fully in the face.