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‘Right. What’s the best way to do this?’ she asked.
‘First you need to remember that you can swim—of course it’s different than a pool, but it’s still water. You do have the ability to navigate the sea as long as you respect it. Respect is healthy. Also, remember we’ve done all the safety checks on tides and currents. Next, you need to get used to the temperature—come in a little further, get a feel for it.’
His calm deep tones helped and Gabby nodded, stepped forward, felt the resistance of the water against her legs. She was relieved that the water, though cold, was already sun warmed in the late afternoon as she tried to absorb and define the swirl of the current.
‘Watch your breathing,’ Zander said. ‘It’s easy when you’re a bit anxious and in water to breathe shallowly. Better to focus on deeper breaths—inhale and feel your diaphragm move.’
Now it wasn’t only his voice but his presence that helped. She walked a little further, feeling the sand rougher now between her toes, and she looked down, wondered what lurked in the swirling turquoise depths.
‘It’s OK. Let’s just swim out a little way—a few strokes, slowly and methodically. Then we’ll flip over on to our backs and you can look at the sky and float. Does that sound OK? I’ll be right next to you.’
She made the first few strokes and then fear, unfamiliarity and the idea of the unknown segued into panic. Even the ability to swim, to breathe seemed to desert her. Then came his voice.
‘Now on to your back. It’s fine, Gabby.’
On automatic, she managed to turn over, her panic assuaged by the feel of his hands under her, offering support, and she concentrated on breathing and floating. Then he released her and she gazed up at the still, intense blue of the sky, open and vast and oddly calming. She was doing it—actually being carried by the waves—and disbelief fought with sheer exhilaration.
‘You’re doing great. You ready to head back to shore? Or do you want to go a little further?’
One last look at the sky and Gabby switched to treading water. She looked at the shore—the sandy curve was still not too far away—and turned her head to look out at the sea. There were other swimmers out further...a few surfers along the waves.
‘Let’s go a little further. I’d like to actually swim.’
‘How about twenty-five strokes and then we’ll turn and head back? Make sure you breathe on both sides if you’re doing front crawl—and maybe swap to breaststroke if you feel panicked. That way you can see where you’re going better.’
Again Zander struck the right tone—acceptance without question, an assumption that she could do it alongside common sense and practical advice. That and the knowledge that he’d be there right beside her enabled Gabby to turn away from the shore and strike out, counting the strokes in her head, keeping time, feeling the cleave of the water against her limbs.
She reached twenty-five and stopped, turned and looked back at the shore, now peopled by what looked like the equivalent of toy figures. She could feel the rise of panic; the growing idea that she wouldn’t make it back. She saw an image of Lucille, left all alone, Gabby’s promise to her grandfather to look after her broken by a stupid urge to try to be different, to change her personality.
Suddenly the limbs that had felt so strong, so buoyant just seconds before trembled, her lungs refused to cooperate, and an urgent need for oxygen caused her ears to pound.
‘Gabby. It’s fine. You’re doing fine. Twenty-five more strokes and you’ll be back in touching distance of the shore. You will make it back.’
She opened eyes she hadn’t even known she’d closed and looked at Zander’s expression. He was serious, his belief in his own words so strong she could swear they formed an aura. Every fibre of her being wanted to ask him to tow her back, and she knew he would do so without question or censure. But something deeper told her that was the easy option and one she would regret taking.
‘Let’s go.’
This time it was harder, each stroke more of an effort, but eventually she hit twenty-five, surfaced—and saw the shoreline! A few more strokes and she could stand. Her questing toes found and crunched on the seabed and she waded towards the shore, reached it, turned and looked back out to sea.
‘I did it! I swam out and I came back!’
‘You did it and came back. Your grandfather would be proud of you.’
Turning to Zander, Gabby smiled at the thought. Imagined her much-loved gramps patting her on the shoulder, a beaming smile on his face.
‘I did it!’ she repeated. ‘I did it. I did it. I did it!’
And before either of them knew what was happening Zander had caught her around the waist and was twirling her round and round, both of them laughing like loons. Eventually he placed her on the sand gently and looked down into her eyes.
Heaven help her, all she wanted to do was kiss him. But she knew she mustn’t. Even though right now, in the moment, she couldn’t remember why it was bad idea. Adrenaline rush—that was all it was.
Who knew whether common sense would have prevailed? It wasn’t put to the test, because a man approached them. Young, long hair, tanned, a happy smile, a surfboard under his arm.
‘Gabby? I am Pedro. We spoke earlier. I am your surf instructor.’
‘Fantastic! Hi, Pedro. This is Zander.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
