Just outside Raffe’s wingspan, I call out. “Raffe, stop thrashing.” He turns to me. “Calm down and I’ll come get you.”

I’ve heard that most drowning victims can’t calm down. They have to impose their will against every survival instinct to stop flailing and let themselves feel like they’re drowning. It takes an infinite amount of trust to count on someone else to save you.

Raffe must have enormous willpower because he immediately stops splashing. He moves his arms and legs gently but it’s not enough to keep him afloat.

He starts sinking.

I swim with every bit of turbo I’ve got.

His head is below water before I can reach him. I tug up on him but his giant wings are a huge drag and I’m pulled down instead.

We both sink below water.

Even as we submerge, he still doesn’t thrash. I’m awed by how much iron will it would take to override his instinctive needs. And how much trust.

Underwater, I can’t tell him to close his wings all the way to reduce the drag. I frantically reach for his wing and shove at it.

He understands and closes his massive wings tightly along his body. They look as light and thin as air. I’m sure that if he knew how to use them in the water, he could glide like a stingray.

Kicking and pulling as hard as I can, I drag us to the surface. I’m not a super strong swimmer but like most California kids, I’ve had enough time in the ocean to feel comfortable in it. With Raffe’s hollow bones, or whatever it is that makes him light, he’s not a heavy burden.

Relief floods through me when his head pops up and he can breathe. I swim with one arm angled across his shoulder and chest, keeping our faces up.

“Scissor your legs, Raffe. Keep kicking them.” His legs are a powerful motor. Once we get going, we get into a steady rhythm and we make good progress away from the splashing angels.

The one I cut up is still bobbing feebly in the bloody water not too far from the others. I don’t know what would happen in a fight between a gang of angels and a school of great white sharks but I’m glad I won’t be close enough to see it.

Since the angels are squarely in the sharks’ territory, my bet is with the sharks. Who says angels can’t be killed?

They quickly disappear in the mist and I rely on Raffe’s uncanny instinct for direction to get us to shore.