Oh! It was good to plunge in the salt sea again, good to feel the muscles of the ocean tossing her about. The same current, the same water she and Sam had crossed yesterday, thousands of miles of it. She attempted two waves and foundered on both of them, filling her nose with salt, but she just grabbed the board and swam out again, a little farther this time. The sky grew lighter by the minute; now she could make out the buildings lined up along Waikiki, the great gray Moana smack in the middle. To the right, Diamond Head made a crisp silhouette against the golds and pinks of the rising sun. Another wave surged up beneath her. She lay on the board and paddled her arms, looked over her shoulder to judge this thing, monstrous, all the world’s energy thrumming inside. The glow of the sunrise blinded her. She closed her eyes and felt the wave instead, discovered its rhythm, paddled to keep up with it, right on the sweet spot, higher and higher, oh it was a beauty, wait and wait and now! Scramble to your feet, perfectly balanced, knees bent, soaring forever along a diagonal line to the beach until you skimmed straight into the foam, you sucked every ounce of momentum from the water and then jumped overboard and laughed for joy. Hauled up your surfboard and scrambled up the sand, looking for the fellow who waited on the beach for you.

But he wasn’t there. The beach was empty.

Irene came to a stop where the water washed around her shins. She spun around and there he was, stroking toward her, a few yards away. In another second he caught up and snatched her against his chest.

“Goddammit, Irene! Didn’t you hear me yelling?”

“Yelling! Yelling for what?”

“Shark,” he gasped.

Sam’s legs gave way and they sank kerplop into the undertow. The water whisked away and left them bare. Sam’s heart thundered in her ear, his arms wouldn’t let go.

“I didn’t see any shark,” she whispered.

“Big silver fin about six feet away from you. Just before you caught the wave.” He flopped them both backward to lie on the wet sand, Irene on top, while another wave washed up to his ears. “I thought you were a goner.”

They lay another minute or two while their flesh molded and their wet clothes glued together. Irene slid a few inches down along his left side; her right knee rose to cross his thighs. Her arm curled atop his breastbone, rising and falling. Her breathing slowed, and so did his. The surfboard bobbed away. Dawn broke at last, and the sky turned pink.

Three stories above them, a man stood at the window of his hotel room, opened the sash, lifted a camera equipped with a special long focus lens, and snapped a few photographs.

Hanalei, Hawai’i

October 1947