Free Grayson by Lynne Cox Page B

chocolate with a mound of whipped cream as big as Big Bear Mountain in the distance. I could eat it and float on it. All I wanted was a pot of hot orange spice tea and a chocolate chip scone. That would be delicious too. Even better, thick moist chocolate cake with chocolate butter-cream icing, or carrot cake with pecans and cinnamon and clove, pineapple, and coconut, or a slice of hot apple strudel—any of these would do.
    My stomach was moaning, sputtering, and growling. I couldn’t help myself, the more I thought about it, the hungrier I got. I imagined a steamy plate filled with penne pasta and thick marinara with thin shavings of Parmesan cheese, or a dish piled high with linguini and scallops, shrimp, mussels, in a white wine and garlic sauce. Or salmon, I love salmon—grilled, poached, marinated—or New England lobster withbutter, or steamed clams. Really anything would be more than fine. I would love a cracker or a thick, juicy grilled New York steak or a rare filet mignon with spinach. Something hot and spicy would warm me up from the inside out: I would love Thai eggplant, Indian jade curry, Hunan beef, Sichuan shrimp, or a hot steamy bowl of sukiyaki. I could eat a cheeseburger with Muenster cheese, or I could eat a Chicago or New York pizza, with mushrooms and long stringy cheese. I kept thinking of food and I got hungrier and hungrier. Then I thought of Grayson. And that made me feel guilty. I had discovered guilt is a great motivator. I thought of him instead of me. And his needs, not mine.
    Grayson had to be famished. His mother must be too. She hadn’t eaten at all during her migration south, during the birth, or on her migration north. It was amazing the way she swam north with her baby, fed him, giving herself to him with her milk, her body shrinking as his body grew. I hoped we could find her. Sometimes you just had to believe that things would be okay. Sometimes it made no sense to be optimistic, but it sure beat being pessimistic.
    The wind was diminishing, the ocean becoming smoother. There were long silky areas and lined sections rippled by the breeze: They made the ocean look like the petals of a flower. As the sun shifted, the water changed to a bright purple blue and it was like floating on Van Gogh’s irises and across the fuzzy yellow, gold, and white blaze.
    Rolling onto my stomach I took a breath, looked deep into the purple-blue water. Seeing nothing but purple, I closed my eyes and listened. There were so many sounds. Tiny crackling noises like plankton bumping into one another, and the sound of shrimp growing.
    Grayson had been gone for fifteen minutes.
    But I had been in the water for three and a half hours. And the water was three or four degrees colder out near the oil rig than it was near shore. And when I was floating, I wasn’t creating any heat through exercise. The cold was starting to work its way deep into my muscles and I knew that I was getting closer to hypothermia. If the cold water made my body temperature drop too far, I could pass out or die from exposure.
    I had to start moving.
    I told myself to try one more time. I dove under the water and thought as loudly as I could: Please, Grayson, don’t give up on me. Please don’t leave me out here. We’ll find your mother. I’m not sure how, but we have a better chance if we stick together. Grayson, please come back.

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    The tide was pressing into me. It was like being tethered to a giant elastic band. I would make some headway and then I would be pulled backward. I had to start swimming faster than I had three and a half hours ago if I was going to get across the tide and make it back to shore. I imagined that I was a tiny boat and my arms were the oars. I pulled harder.
    On the horizon were the San Gabriel Mountains. The range rimmed the Los Angeles Basin and formed a long arc along the horizon. They were covered with a light, bright white powdering of snow. The highest mountain in the chain was Big Bear Mountain