He knew he couldn’t run through the blueberry patch, so he ran for the floating boardwalk, dashed down it to the pontoon, and launched into a dive. A split second before hitting the water he heard a shout from the house, but he couldn’t tell what was said. He dove into the black water and swam for the bottom, which happened at about four feet. He swam along it, waiting for the gunshots to find him, but nothing happened. He swam past the outer floating dock, bobbed up long enough to grab a breath, then went down deeper. He reckoned he had eight feet now, but he couldn’t hold his breath much longer, what with the exertion.

Then, above his head, the water began to explode.

39

Ed swam, his lungs bursting, until he bumped his head hard on the hull of his boat. Breathing hard, he pulled himself along the deck to the stern, where there was a boarding ladder. Arriving there, he realized that he had left the dock lights on and one of them hung directly over the boat, illuminating every square foot of it.

Ed breathed hard for another half a minute, to get enough air into his lungs to shout, then he hollered,

“Sally!” No response. Once more. “Sally!”

She opened the door wide and stood there, sheltered from the view from the house next door. “Ed?”

“Turn off the dock lights, then the inside lights, and stay low and well away from the windows.”

“Done!” she shouted back and closed the door. A moment later the dock lights went off, then the interior lights. Ed, who was freezing now, pulled out the boarding ladder built into the stern, climbed up and over, and lay in the darkened cockpit, heaving in air and trying to gain strength. Finally, he was able to crawl forward through the saloon and down the companionway ladder to the head below, where he showered off the salt water and rubbed himself down with a thick, dry towel. Then he shucked off his wet clothes and wrapped the towel around himself, waiting for what remained of his body heat to warm him.

That done, he found a change of clothes and got into some khakis and a polo shirt, dry underwear and socks, and a spare pair of Top-Siders. He found a bucket and stuffed his wet clothes into it, and tossed it into the cockpit. He crawled back up the stairs and into the saloon, where he found a bottle of whiskey, poured himself one, and sat on the floor, drinking it and pondering his circumstances. He had one more lap to run in this race: from the boat, up the boardwalk, across the front porch, and into the house, where the thought of a warm woman waiting helped him recover his strength.