In the uncertainty, the oddness, the amnesia, the repetition, and the confusion since the accident—Who are you? she often thought—this was the first positive sign. It was hopeful, the assurance of a future, a good omen. He had not seemed to realize how badly stalled his life had been by the accident, the death of the cyclist. But he had not uttered the banal sentence “I ran into a drunk homeless guy” since he’d learned of her pregnancy. She had been a witness to his dullness, and (though he had not mentioned anything of his change of mood) this was a relief. He had been lost, going in circles, and at last this was a way forward. Perhaps, she thought, this was the reason people had kids, one after the other: to be assured of a future, for the children, for themselves.

Sharkey was insistent that she exercise. Work at the hospital, no matter how strenuous, was not enough. What she needed was the thrust and uplift of waves, the purification of the sea.

“The sea is pono. It makes you right. It will make you strong—both of you.”

Already he saw a family when he looked upon her. He still showed signs of damage—of trauma—from the accident, but she was reassured by his support, and she began to think of them as a family too. Sharkey and she embracing, their little swimmer squeezed between them.

Sharkey led the way, taking her for morning swims before work or meeting her at the end of the day at Waimea Bay or Three Tables, always swimming with her. The waves were so small that once through the shore break they were in smooth water, Sharkey stroking beside her, rising and plunging, dolphin-style.

It seemed to work; the exercise helped her sleep, the sleep itself calmed her, and her nausea was eased. She began to believe in him again, in the way she had when they first met, listening to his stories, seeing him triumphant on a wave; and he was a hero to her again, all that a father should be.

“You could try stand-up paddling. We could go out of Hale‘iwa in the harbor, where it’s really glassy.”

“What if I fall?”

“Falling in water is like flying. Or take one of the boogie boards.”

She allowed herself to be persuaded to use a boogie board. She took a swim fin for one foot, as was the custom. Sharkey drove along Kam Highway, looking for a likely spot, and passing Waimea he glanced at the waves and said, “You could handle that.”

“Not here,” she said. “Not this place.”

“The waves are clean.”

But superstitiously—he was near the spot where he’d killed the cyclist—she said, “Let’s go farther down.”