Lights Out

“The fucking hose,” he said. He looked down at Eddie. The boat rose, fell, crashed, settled lower in the water. “I can’t swim,” Julio yelled to no one in particular. He seized the hose.

Eddie got to his feet. “Anyone can learn to swim,” he said. He lifted up the fuel tank, raised it high over his head, and heaved it overboard. One corner of it caught Julio on the shoulder. He lost his balance, slipped again on the watery deck, now ankle-deep, and fell backward over the transom, sinking out of sight in the black water.

The men in the cockpit froze. El Rojo was the first to move. He reached into his pocket, was still reaching when the boat swung sideways and yawed until the sea slopped over the edge, knocking everyone down.

The boat slowly righted itself; much lower in the water now. Half crawling, half sliding across the flooded deck, which reeked of gasoline, Eddie made his way to the cleat where the noose was tied. Paz arrived first.

Paz unfastened the rope, jerked it hard, cutting off Eddie’s air. But Eddie got his hands on it too, gathered his legs beneath him, and sprang over the side.

Paz was strong enough to keep his hold on the rope but not strong enough to stay on board. He fell in after Eddie. The rope loosened around Eddie’s neck.

They went down together, tangled in rope. Ten, or fifteen, or twenty feet below, the water was almost calm, and not particularly cold. Eddie had no fear of it at all. He felt tugging around his neck, reached out and wrapped his arms around Paz. Paz wriggled, struggled, gouged, but couldn’t get away, couldn’t go up. When the wriggling, struggling, and gouging stopped, Eddie released Paz and kicked his way up to the surface, alone.

He broke through on a rising wave, striking his head on something. The backpack. He slipped the noose off his neck and swam toward it. He was a stroke or two away when it went under.

As the wave carried Eddie higher, the moon shone through a break in the clouds. Eddie looked around. In the southwest he saw the lights of El Liberador, not far away. In the east, much fainter, glimmered the lights of the island. The speedboat was gone. There were only two men in the water, one in the trough beneath him, the other on the crest of the next wave. The man in the trough was Jack; the man on the crest was El Rojo.

El Rojo’s eyes, silver in the moonlight, fastened on Eddie. “You will never be safe.” Then he turned and started swimming toward El Liberador, his stroke smooth and strong.

Eddie dipped into a trough. When he rose again El Rojo was out of sight, but Jack was much closer. Eddie swam to him, touched him.

“You all right?”

Jack nodded. The dressing had slipped off his neck, revealing the black stitches across his skin.

Eddie pointed toward the lights of Saint Amour. “It’s nothing, Jack, just a training swim. We’ll be fine.”

“Never.”

The wind whipped off the top of a wave and flung it in their faces. Jack gasped, choked, went under for a moment, came up coughing.

“Let’s go,” Eddie said.

“Sharks are down there.”

“They won’t bother us.”

“They can smell blood, Eddie. For miles and miles.”

“We’ll be fine. Come on.”

To set an example, Eddie turned toward Saint Amour, stretched out, swam. He found his rhythm at once, easy and powerful, slashing through the spikes, climbing the crests, sliding down into the troughs. The ocean might have been rough, but all he felt was its support. He could swim to Saint Amour, or much farther if he had to; as though all those years in the pool had been just for this. Eddie swam, kicking, pushing great handfuls of water aside, riding high, barely breathing; swimming his best. After a while, he stopped to make sure Jack was keeping up. He couldn’t see him.

“Jack?” he shouted over the wind.

No reply.

He swam back, out to sea, pausing once or twice to call, “Jack? Jack?” and heard no answer. He found him among the litter left behind by the speedboat, not swimming.

“Jack. For Christ’s sake.”

“It’s too far.”

“It’s not.”

“The sharks will get me anyway.”

“Swim, Jack. Like in the pool. You were the best.”

“That was a long time ago. I blew it.”

“You didn’t blow it.”

“Then how come we’re here?”

A wave broke over Jack’s head, left him coughing.

“Swim, Jack.”

Jack started swimming, in the right direction, but so clumsy. His arms barely came out of the water, his legs hardly kicked. Eddie stroked along beside him. Twice he looked back. The first time he saw El Liberador moving south. The second time it was out of sight. He raised his head, looked the other way, toward the lights of Saint Amour. They had receded. Either it was his imagination or they were caught in a current. Eddie swam faster, found his rhythm again. The next time he checked, Saint Amour seemed a little closer. He looked around for Jack; and didn’t see him.

“Jack,” he called.

All he heard in reply were the countless sounds of sea and wind. He turned back.

He found Jack again, treading water, rising and falling with the swells, his eyes on the moon.

“Jack. You’re not trying.”