Not even halfway to shore, I’m breathless. Back when I was young and healthy, and when this water was a part of me, I could swim this distance with two arms tied behind my back. The good news is, I make it to where my feet can touch bottom. The bad news is, a cop car just rolled up. I’m thrown into the clutches of another memory. The time Char nearly drowned here.

On Labour Day weekend, just before the start of grade eleven, there was a massive party at The Wharf. The kind where kids from Loch Bhreagh, Town, and even Town, Town came out to get wrecked and camp on the beach. Unsurprisingly, somebody called the cops. Probably Peggy’s best friend, Shirl Short, because that’s what Shirl Short does best. Calls the cops and wrecks the fun every time she smells “the dope.” The cop car rolled up just after midnight. Sneaky bastards coasted down the road with the lights off until they were right at the edge of the crowd, then flipped on the red and blues. Two of them jumped out with their flashlights to nab anyone too trashed to bolt. Those of us who’d spent a few years drinking in the woods were pretty good at making cop escapes. Some of us had even become very skilled at jumping into various bodies of shallow-ish water to hide when parties got busted.

Me, Char, and Shirl Short’s beloved saint of a nephew, Duke, were standing at the far edge of the wharf, smoking a joint and staring at the stars when flashing lights and warning bellows of “Pigs! Run!” erupted from the shore. Char calmly turned around and jumped off the wharf, into the blackness below. Unbeknownst to me, not only was she on a hit of Paco Landry’s bathtub acid, but she also had thirty squares of it in her pocket. She was selling it for Paco Landry at the party because, fully beknownst to everyone, Char was sleeping with Paco Landry. Within seconds, she started splashing and yelling because she was tripping hard, and sinking fast. Char could barely swim at the best of times, and the knee-high Dr. Martens and hoodie she wore didn’t help.

I waited for Duke to jump in after her, since he was close to sober. And a provincial swim team champ. And a lifeguard. And also sleeping with Char. But the smarmy little prick didn’t. Instead, he mumbled, “Shitty time if she drowns,” before he jogged down the wharf and off into the woods. So into the water I went, getting close enough for Char to hear me, but not so close that she could pull me under with her panic. I talked her into treading water, then helped her doggie paddle over to the rusted iron ladder on the side of the wharf. Even the darkness, the chaos, the few sips of lemon gin, and the solid hit of THC were no match for what my body knew about navigating these waters. We clung to the ladder until we heard somebody yell, “All clear. Party on!”