Free Grayson by Lynne Cox Page A

moving like a plane speeding down the runway for takeoff. He converted his speed across the water into lift and, this time, got his body more airborne. He flew five feet above the sea’s surface and when he hit the water I felt the impact. His splash soared six feet into the air.
    For a couple of minutes he caught his breath and then he sped off one more time, faster than before, and this time when he leaped, he adjusted his position in midair and launched himself ten feet across thewater. This time the splash flew twelve feet into the air. If there had been an ocean Olympics for the long jump, Grayson would have received a gold medal.
    I waited for him. And wondered how much longer I could wait. I was cold and tired. But, I thought, maybe he’s down below talking with the other whales that are traveling along the whale trail north. Maybe they heard his breaching sounds. And maybe they know where his mother is or maybe they will tell her where to find Grayson.
    All that I knew, though, was that I was really tired. And that soon I would have to get ashore. I strained my eyes to spot Grayson’s fluke. Pulling my goggles off my face, I placed them on top of my head and rubbed the soft skin where the goggles’ rubber gasket had pressed against my eye sockets and forehead. They were sore and my eyes burned from the saltwater. My neck hurt from lifting it way too much. I was whining. I checked my watch. It was nearly nine a.m. Grayson had been gone for ten minutes. I knew I should head home soon or my parents would be wondering about me.
    I made my feet move in small circles, toward each other, one foot and then the other, like an egg beater, then I did it faster so that the action would lift me two or three feet above the water and I could get up higher in the water to see if there was anything out there.
    It was hard work. I was breathing heavily so I decided to alternate between doing a slow and a fast egg-beater. I rested during the slow eggbeater and worked on the fast, and I moved slowly in a tight circle so I could see all the way around. Twelve minutes had passed since I had last seen Grayson.
    Putting on my goggles and taking a breath, I put my face under the water, and made small slow circles with my feet.
    Had he found his mother? Or had he swum off? Should I swim to shore alone?
    Shore was farther away than it had been ten minutes ago. The ebb tide was pushing me beyond the oil rig. Catalina Island’s mountain peaks were clearly visible in the distance. I reminded myself that I had swum there before, but that didn’t matter. I was becoming impatient.
    How much longer do I wait?
    I told myself to wait for five minutes, and when five minutes passed, I asked myself again: How much longer should I wait?
    The answer came to me. Wait as long as you need to. The waiting is as important as the doing: it’s the time you spend training and the rest in between; it’s painting the subject and the space in between; it’s the reading and the thinking about what you’ve read; it’s the written words, what is said, what is left unsaid, the space between the thoughts on the page, that makes the story, and it’s the space between the notes, the intervals between fast and slow, that makes the music. It’s the love of being together, the spacing, the tension of being apart, that brings you back together. Just wait, just be patient, he will return.
    But the reality was that I was growing colder, more tired, and more hungry.
    I checked my watch. Three minutes. It had seemed like thirty. My thoughts were becoming negative.
    I knew that if I changed my thoughts, I would change the way I felt about what I was experiencing. Iwas hungry and all I could think of was food. So I let my mind go wild and I began imagining what I would have when I finished my workout.
    All I wanted was a toasted and chewy bagel with peanut butter, or with jam; or a flaky, slightly sweet, buttery croissant and hot, rich French coffee and milk. A cup of hot