He passes some critical point and the water-temperature drops abruptly, and a wave slaps roughly against his thighs and he holds his arms up high out of reach and gasps for breath. Slowly, he walks on. Then he turns around and waits for the wave.

When it comes it’s a brutal slap right between his shoulders that knocks him off his feet. He had no idea water could be so solid. Then something else grabs him and drags him, away from the beach and deeper in. He splutters and fumbles for the bottom. Before he can find it, another wave hits him slap, and he’s gone again, pull and drag away from safety, and he gets his head free for a minute and then slap, and this time he’s right under the wave, they’re taller than he is. How did the water get so deep so quickly? This isn’t what he planned. He wants to fight but he can’t. It’s not giving him a chance. Every time he remembers what to do another wave comes, slap and drag, and he can’t swim if he can’t get started right, he needs to push off from the bottom and slap and drag, and a mouthful of air and he can’t even scream and this wasn’t what he planned, not at all.

Then a hand clutches his arm and a voice screams in his ear and he reaches out in terror and grabs a handful of what feels like seaweed. He grabs again and finds cold salvation, the limbs and torso of another person and someone’s telling him, Hold on, hold on to me, you idiot, what happened to your armbands? He clings desperately, knowing this is his only chance. He’s disoriented and lost but he thinks they must be getting closer to the shore, because now there’s sunlight on his skin as well as water. And then the person holding him is Ava, staggering as she carries him into the shallows. She saw him struggling and came to save him – even though they argued all the way down in the car about who was making annoying noises and whose hand was over the line and whose turn it was to play I Spy. She’s saved him from the ocean. He coughs up a mouthful of water and his breath begins to slow and the aftermath of fear is all through him and Ava, tall and stern, stands over him.

“What were you doing?” she screams.

“I was swimming,” he mumbles. “Like in the pool.”

“That wasn’t swimming, not proper swimming, you were putting your foot down! You know you can’t swim without your armbands!”

He doesn’t want to cry, but it doesn’t seem to be up to him. It’s like trying not to be sick.

“Oh, don’t cry,” she says in despair, and holds her arms out.

He wants to crawl onto her lap but he knows it’s babyish. He compromises by resting his head against her chest and letting her stroke his hair.