Suddenly he was very tired. But he wasn’t quite ready to go back to his hotel room. The night was too beautiful to waste. Leaving it so soon seemed wasteful. He stood up and, jumping lightly to the sand, removed his shoes and socks, tucking the later into the former and setting the shoes on the rock. He rolled his pants as close to the knee as he could and then, barefoot, he walked to the water.

The first touch made him retreat a step. It was cold, much colder than he’d expected. Again he thought of his disappointment over discovering that the Pacific was no bluer than its East Coast sibling. Nor, he now found, was it any warmer.

He tried again, letting the waves flow over his feet, steeling himself for its icy touch. Then he took another step, and another, until the water, when it came in again, reached halfway to his knees. It was bitterly cold, but he stood it. How did Ricketts stand in this for hours at a time? he wondered, then recalled the pictures he’d seen of the biologist in tall rubber boots and felt ashamed of his romantic inclinations.

Still, he kept walking. Something skittered over his feet with feathery lightness, and he imagined crabs, tiny fish, the inquisitive tentacles of an octopus. Was there anything in the Pacific to fear? He thought vaguely of sharks, and how they attacked most often in darkness, when they couldn’t discern prey from a helpless grad student.

He stopped, having gone far enough. The water was to his knees now. He felt the edges of his pants where they’d become wet, a definite sign that he should go no farther. He looked back over his shoulder. His rock was a surprising distance away. Low tide, he reminded himself.

As he was looking back, he heard the rushing of water and turned just in time to see a wave, larger than the previous ones, moving toward him. He tried to back away from it but could not outrun the ocean. The wave, already crashing, hit him at waist level and sent him sprawling backward. He fell, the water rushing over his body, covering his face. He inhaled saltwater and choked. In the darkness, he was lost completely, not sure if he was facing up or down as the waves pulled and tugged at him, spinning him.

He had a very clear image of his death. He saw his body washed up on the beach, perhaps being sniffed curiously by the same dog he’d met earlier in the evening. Would the authorities know who to call? Would the saltwater ruin his student ID, his only link to his real life? Worst of all, what would become of the manuscript? He would die never knowing the truth.

And then the water was gone and he was looking up at the sky, air rushing into his lungs as he gasped, fishlike; on the sand. Before another wave could hit, he scrambled to his feet and ran back to the rock and safety. He was shivering, but the fear had left him, replaced by an overwhelming sense of joy. It was as if the sea had picked him up and tossed him the way the man had thrown the stick for the dog. He felt dizzy, almost giddy with delight at nature’s whimsy.