If I lost the shorts, I’d lose the razor.
So I reached down, grabbed the waist with one hand and held on. An instant later, I burst up out of the water. I gasped for air. With both hands, I pulled up my shorts.
The'ma’s head suddenly jerked sideways. She’d spotted me. She shoved the steering arm. The bow swung sharply and pointed at me. The motor noise swelled to a roar.
I dived.
A near miss. I felt the shivering water of the prop-wash against my back.
That’d be one way to stop the motor, I thought. Let it hit me.
Which probably would stop it. But the price seemed a bit steep.
During family vacation as a kid, I’d spent enough time in outboard motor boats to have them quit on me any number of times. Not always because of a fuel problem. If the prop hit a large rock… got tangled with weeds.
Yes!
Staying as deep as possible, I shoved a hand into my pocket and dug out the razor. I slid the razor under the top of my right sock. Then I tugged the shorts down and off.
After missing its chance at me, the boat had slowed down and resumed its casual circling.
I wadded the shorts.
Holding them in both hands, I started toward the surface.
Probably lose a few fingers, I thought.
Might be worth it, if it works.
I watched the gliding black belly of the boat. Slowed my climb. Watched. Waited. Felt the push of water as the bow passed over my head.
And suddenly shot both arms up, ramming my shorts into the propeller. In an instant, they were ripped from my grip. I jerked my arms down.
Fingers and hands intact.
Above me, the motor groaned, coughed and quit.
Yes, yes, yes!
Motor dead, the dinghy glided on by. I started swimming underwater to stay with it.
In a few seconds, I managed to get underneath it again.
A few seconds after that, the dinghy wobbled. Then the entire submerged portion of the motor swung up and broke the surface—taking along the remains of my shorts.
You can swing these outboard motors up on their hinges to get at the props. I’d done it myself a few times. So I knew that Thelma had to be standing at the stern, bent over the motor, both her hands busy.
A good, precarious position.
I lunged for the surface.
Reached high.
As my face cleared the water, I grabbed the gunnel with both hands and jerked down on it like a guy desperate to climb aboard.
My side of the dinghy lurched downward.
The other side jumped up.
Thelma, looming above me, was bent over the raised motor just as I’d hoped. Both her hands were on it. By the time I saw her, she had already turned her head to see what had gone wrong.
Already lost any chance of staying on her feet.
Crying out with alarm, she flung up her arms. She swayed sideways, shoulder first. For a moment, she stood on her right leg while her left leg lifted like a boy dog about to wet a tree. But her left leg kept rising higher. Then she was plunging down over the side of the dinghy. The gunnel jerked out of my grip and the dinghy scooted off. I kicked to keep my head up.
Thelma’s right shoulder struck the water.
The rest of her followed.
Then came a concussion that buffeted me, shoved at me, and slapped a load of water into my face.
Blind from the drenching, I began to swim after the dinghy.
My goal was to reach it, climb aboard, and take control of the machetes. Once I had them, Thelma wouldn’t dare give me any more trouble.
I’d have nothing more to fear from her or Wesley.
As I swam, I blinked the water out of my eyes. The dinghy was about twenty feet away.
No sweat.
I glanced back. No sign of Thelma. She still hadn’t come up. Though glad she wasn’t hot on my tail, I felt a twist of worry.
Maybe she’d drowned.
I actually thought about going back to see if she needed help. Which sounds nuts. But I had this idea that she might be grateful, might even change her tune and decide to stop fighting me. Maybe we would join forces, be a team…
She grabbed my left ankle.
Stopped me cold and jerked me down.
When her other hand clutched the back of my right leg, it gripped me above the top of my sock—missing the razor, thank God.
I felt myself being dragged backward.
A hand released me, grabbed me higher on the leg.
Knowing Thelma, she’d be going for my nuts. So I squeezed my legs together to stop her from reaching between them. Just in the nick of time, too.
She shoved a hand between my thighs. As she drove it in, prying her way deeper into the crevice, I suddenly tried to fling myself over. Her one hand stayed trapped between my thighs. Her other let go of my calf. I twisted, flung myself about, and kicked with both legs. In seconds, Thelma no longer had me.
I clawed to the surface. Gasping to fill my lungs, I whirled around as her head popped out of the water. She sucked in a single big breath. Then I clutched her shoulders with both my hands and drove her down.
She didn’t go straight down—she went over backward, me on top.
She fought me. When I lost hold of her slippery shoulders, she wrapped her arms around my back. She gave me a hug as if trying to crush my ribcage. My arms were free, so I grabbed her by the hair and one ear, and twisted her head.
Both of us kicked and squirmed.
I quickly lost track of who was on top—or where the top might be. We both stayed underwater, though. Neither of us could breathe.
And neither of us let go.
We stayed in our clinch as if each of us figured we had the upper hand.
It seemed like hours that we struggled under the water in that fierce embrace. It might’ve been as long as a minute.
Finally, Thelma seemed to tire out. Her thrashing and writhing and kicking slowed down. Her arms no longer squeezed my ribcage so hard. Soon after that, she ceased all her struggles. Her arms loosened their hold, then slid away from my back.
I let go of her ear. With the hand that clutched her hair, I eased her away from me.
She seemed limp.
Unconscious, maybe dead.
Maybe faking.
Keeping my grip on her hair, I rose to the surface. I breathed, but held her head under—at arm’s length, just in case she was playing “possum.
I had to tread water furiously to keep my own head up. With so much motion on my part, I might not be able to detect movements by Thelma. Until it was too late.
Unnerving.
I felt like a murderer and a sitting duck.
It became very difficult to keep on holding her down. I thought she might already be dead. But I also half
