All at Sea - Decca Aitkenhead

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And Tony let him go swimming by himself? Tony is normally quite jumpy around water; he has never been a good swimmer, and is easily panicked when the boys are in the sea. I wonder what they can be up to. Vaguely uneasy, I turn and glance around the deck. Swimming costumes and beach towels and sarongs are slung over backs of chairs. I see suntan lotion and straw hats scattered on the floor. I spot Joe’s swimming vest hooked over a branch of the calabash tree, where I had hung it out to dry the night before. And then I freeze. I am staring at Jake’s vest. He cannot be wearing it, because it is right there next to Joe’s in the tree.

      I’m flying down the garden path to the beach before my mind has time to calibrate the drama. That is Jake out there in the ocean, and he cannot swim. The panic flooding me is unlike anything I have ever known. But even as I sprint I can’t quite seriously believe in my own fright. Surely this can’t be a genuine emergency, can it? In real life, emergencies always turn out to be false alarms – and this one is palpably implausible. Jake is still only yards from the shore, after all. We are on holiday. I know this beach inside out.

      But I don’t stop running. Within seconds I am through the gate and onto the sand. I don’t take my eyes off Jake. But then I see that Tony is already ahead of me, ploughing through the water towards him. Within moments he has our son in his hands, and lifts the spluttering child out of the waves above his head. Jake coughs and chokes, catches his breath, and relaxes in Tony’s arms. The crisis is over. Tony wraps an arm around Jake and starts to head back to shore.

      As I sink onto the sand to watch, the relief makes me giggly. Oh dear, I think, we are never going to hear the end of this. Tony is such a drama queen about water, he’s going to blather on about this all day. By teatime he will probably be claiming the waves were 6 feet high. Tony loves an anecdote, and this one is right up his street. Oh well, I smile. It may even be the highlight of his holiday.

      But something is wrong. Tony and Jake are now vertical in the water, facing each other, submerged up to their chins. Although not far from the shore, Tony is already out of his depth. Waves are breaking in their faces; they are struggling to stay afloat. What can be the matter? And then I see. Tony can’t manage to swim holding Jake. He can barely keep both of them afloat, let alone get them back to shore.

      I leap to my feet and scramble into the water. Within moments I am out of my depth, but the swell is gentle and it doesn’t occur to me to feel anything other than purposeful calm as I swim. Because really, what is there to worry about now? They are not terribly far away. I will just take Jake, swim him back to shore, and once Tony can use both arms he will follow.

      If anything, what I feel as I swim towards them is mild embarrassment. I hadn’t considered pausing to undress, but haring into the ocean with all my clothes on now strikes me as mildly melodramatic. I hope no one was looking. The only other person I’m aware of on the beach is Shugoo, and he will probably tease me all morning about my Baywatch antics.

      Tony and I say nothing to each other when I reach them. We are both focused on Jake. Tony passes him to me, I flip him onto his back, twist onto my back beneath him, cup his chin in my left hand, and with my right hand begin to swim for shore. It’s surprisingly easy. My chief memories of school swimming lessons in the Eighties recall the shame of ill-fitting swimwear, and the malice of our swimming teacher. But now I find that I can also remember the basics of lifesaving. It is thirty years since I was shown the ropes, and I have had no cause to practise since then, but evidently it must be like riding a bike. I will have Jake back on the beach in no time.

      There is a nervy moment when Jake wriggles out of my arm. ‘I want to face you!’ he protests, twisting onto his front, and at once we start to sink. Suddenly I am as helpless as Tony had been. ‘No, Jake! You have to lie on your back! This is not a game!’ I don’t know if my scream frightened him, but he flips onto his back obediently, and once again we are swimming.

      I am not sure how long we have been in the water when I turn to see the beach, but it feels like quite a while. A surprisingly long time, in fact. Surely by now we should be there? I twist my neck to look – and cannot believe what I see.

      This can’t be possible. The beach should be just a few feet away. But we are nowhere near it; we’re not even halfway there. What is going on? I remember the undertow. Of course, that’s what’s going on. How could I have forgotten? We are trapped in its current. But it is nothing like any undertow I have ever known before. This feels more like the force of a gigantic magnet sucking us out to the horizon. And yet, even now, it does not cross my mind to panic. I will just have to swim harder, I tell myself, and it is going to take a little longer than I had thought.

      It still has not occurred to me to worry when I spot another head nearby in the water. The head turns and I see that it is Blouser, a fisherman I’ve known for fifteen years. He must be in his forties by now, but is still lean and fearsomely fit; his home is a tin shack on the beach near our cottage, and he more or less lives in the sea. We have bought fish from Blouser most days on this holiday, and Jake and Joe have been dazzled and fascinated by him, for he can sometimes seem more amphibian than human.

      I open my mouth to call to him, but his expression silences me. Blouser looks frightened to death. He stares back at me across the water, his features rigid with terror and exhaustion.

      What is going on? Why does Blouser look like that? What has happened? ‘Blouser!’ I shout. ‘Are you okay?’ He struggles to nod. ‘Can you take my hand?’ I yell, and he does. We swim together for a few yards, until I see his features relax. ‘Blouser, are you standing? Are you in your depth?’ He nods faintly, head tilted back, straining to keep his mouth above water. I swim on another yard or so past him, searching with outstretched toes until at last they touch wet sand. Hoisting Jake above my shoulders, weak with fatigue, I carry him out of the waves, lower him to his feet, and together we fall to our knees.

      ‘Are you alright?’ I gasp. Jake blinks back at me and grins. ‘Yeah, fine.’ Brushing sand off his pyjamas, he shrugs away the adventure as if it were nothing.

      As I kneel and catch my breath I’m inclined to think he is probably right. There were a couple of dicey moments out there, certainly, and I am very glad it’s over. But nothing significantly dangerous happened. Jake just got out of his depth, and needed help getting in. I don’t know why Blouser looked so panic-stricken, but now that Jake is safely ashore he must be fine. I stand and turn to look for him on the beach, anticipating a hug and rueful smiles.

      But I don’t see Blouser. I don’t even look for him. As I stand and turn, what I see makes me forget all about Blouser. Tony should be wading onto the beach by now; at worst he should be back in his depth. But Tony isn’t anywhere near the shore. He isn’t even where I left him. He is further out to sea, much, much further, 50 feet off shore, and isn’t even trying to swim.

      He is tipping backwards in the water, his neck lolling in the swell, as if the waves were an armchair. He raises an arm, but the gesture looks half-hearted, almost casual, and a moment later he lets it drop. He is shouting something, but the voice is not his. It sounds slurred and thick, more animal than human. ‘Help,’ I hear. ‘Help.’ But there is no urgency in his cry.

      What is he doing all the way out there? Without thinking I race back into the water. A voice from the beach halts me. ‘No!’ Waist-deep in surf, I turn. Blouser is shouting, and his pitch of raw fear seizes me for long enough to turn again and register three men out in the ocean, yards from Tony, swimming hard towards him. One is Shugoo; I can’t make out the other two. But whoever they are, they are going to reach Tony long before I can. I wade back to the beach.

      It’s at this moment that time’s rhythm becomes unrecognisable, simultaneously frenetic and slow-motion. Seconds begin to stretch like minutes, minutes feel more like hours. Time is passing, but nothing is happening, nothing is changing. Tony is still floundering in the waves, the swimmers still have not reached him. I am pacing frantically, pointing and shouting in confusion. Why are they dawdling? Can’t they see he’s in trouble?

      ‘Go to Tony!’ I scream, waving my arms. ‘Help him! For God’s sake, can’t you see he’s drowning?’ Is he? I am shocked by what has just come out of my mouth. He can’t literally be drowning, can he? I am being

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