Water is deceptive, however; what looks like a few feet is often far more, or far less. Half a dozen swim strokes later and the surface looked just as far as it had thirty seconds ago. Was I moving? Without clear landmarks, it was hard to tell. I attempted to keep my thoughts and emotions under control, but a single stray moment of panic wiggled free from my emotional net.
What if I don't make it? The thought burst to the forefront of my mind and I had to wrestle it back as the desire to breathe grew ever stronger. I had to make it. Another look up and the surface still looked as far away as it had. But something else cut through the raging thoughts of doubt. Something about the water had changed.
I could feel myself being pulled in one direction, released, and then pushed in the opposite. Wave action, I realized. I had to be close to the surface. Two strokes later my head slipped above the water and I took my first breath of air in several minutes, fully expecting a bullet to rip through me as I did so. I remembered my dive training and took small shallow breaths at first, resisting the urge to gasp and gulp at the life giving gas.
Much to my relief, no gunshots or shouts rang out. I swayed and surged in the small surf, thankful this part of the island was mostly protected from the wind. If the waves had been any bigger, they surely would have dashed me against the rocks.
The cliff loomed above me, intimidating and uncaring. As I had hoped, the waves had carved out a small indent in the wall at the waterline, and I swam into it, bracing myself against the rock with each incoming wave.
I guess I can add cliff diver to my resume, I thought to myself with a silent, relieved chuckle. I had gotten lucky. Very lucky.
The rocks I had seen from above and the boulders at the bottom had been scattered sporadically. If I had jumped farther down the ridgeline, I would have had a more unfortunate experience. The cliff and the hill curved back in on itself, and a section of it had broken and crumbled away. Water foamed and hissed as it broke over half submerged rocks, creating a large patch of white, heaving foam on an otherwise blue expanse.
The coast in the other direction looked more promising. Half a mile away I could see the cliff give way to a hill that sloped downward towards the sea. If I was going to find a way out of the water, it was going to be over there. Staying under the carved out cliff face as much as possible, I took off hoping for some sort of beach.
My progress was slow. The constant surge of the waves tugged and pulled at me, slowing me down and sapping me of energy. With the immediate danger over, my adrenaline was crashing. I could feel my arms getting heavier with each stroke and I knew I was in for a very long swim. I also knew Bardales would probably send the patrol boat after me.
Sheer cliff slowly gave way to a gray rocky shore as the hillside gradually dipped down. Every couple of minutes I would pause and scan ahead and behind. I was looking for a place to come ashore, but the shore remained rugged and impossible to climb in these waves. Behind me, the hillside remained empty of soldiers and no patrol boat on the water. I continued my swim, one painstaking stroke after another, until it was time to look up again.
◆◆◆
"No, no, no," I cried as the pointed bow of a boat poked out from behind a bend in the shoreline ahead of me. I held my breath, hoping that it was a fishing barca, or a pleasure boat. But that thought died when I saw the enormous gun mounted on the bow. Damnit! Was that the same patrol boat? Had they circled around and gotten ahead of me? Or was it another one entirely? I had no way to know.
Desperately I looked at the shore. Constant spray and foaming water crashed high into the air as waves broke against sharp rocks. It had been over an hour since I had dived off the cliff, and the winds were starting to change. What had begun as small manageable waves had swollen and grown larger.
The spray and foam formed a nearly unbroken barrier between me and the shore. Except one small spot. A break in the wall of rocks, less than thirty feet wide, opened to a small pebble beach that retreated from the sea, fading into sparse grass and eventually thick vegetation.
I looked back at the patrol boat, meandering its way along the coast, heading in my general direction. It was only a matter of time until they noticed me. I looked at the tiny beach and the towering knife-sharp rocks that flanked it. Once again, I knew I didn't have a choice. There was only one possible escape, and so I began swimming.
As the waves had built, they had forced me to swim farther offshore, outside of the growing breakers. Now, I needed those waves. With little more than my head sticking out, the choppy waters would help conceal me. The real benefit, however, was to use them to help propel me onto the inhospitable shore, preferably before the gunboat saw me. I had to judge the waves just right, there was little room for error. If I miscalculated, I'd find myself slammed into the rocks and cut to ribbons.
In my college years I had been an avid, if novice, surfer. It was not a water sport I had kept up with beyond a yearly attempt when I would visit friends in Sebastian Inlet. Those visits had become less and less common as the
