Free Here Today, Gone to Maui by Carol Snow

and low-hanging trees. At the edges, sea spray exploded against soaring boulders; closer in, angry breakers rammed the beach. On a sunny day, the water would be a brilliant blue, but the gray clouds cast a foreboding glow, and whitecaps dotted the steel-colored water like peaks of meringue. If there were any whales jumping today, I wouldn’t be able to see them.
    There were two other groups of people on the beach, their belongings clustered by some loose lava rocks. Jimmy led me down the sand, and I placed my tote bag next to a large boulder. Tough, scruffy pine trees grew straight out of the cliff and would have provided shade had there been any sun. There were no palm trees, no hibiscus—nothing to remind you that you were in the tropics. It looked more like Big Sur than Hawaii—and as beautiful as Big Sur is, I wouldn’t want to swim there.
    Jimmy shrugged out of his BCD and placed it on the sand. He slipped his arms into the wetsuit and pulled on the long cord to zip it up the back.
    “You going to snorkel?” he asked.
    “Well, yeah,” I said, thinking: What else am I supposed to do?
    “Watch out for the coral,” he said. “It can really cut you up.”
    “I will,” I said, thinking: No shit.
    A gust of wind, stronger than the others, knocked over my tote bag. Sand stung my legs. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to dive with a buddy?”
    I trailed him to the water. Down the beach, one of the other groups began to pack up. Jimmy took a couple of steps into the surf, peering at the water in an attempt to find a sandy entry.
    “I dive alone all the time,” he said. “I’d never dive a cave or a wreck by myself, but a little beach dive? It’s no big deal.” He took a few steps to the left. “I’m not going very deep, which means I can stay out for a while. Honolua Bay is right around the corner—it’s got tons of awesome fish and coral. Might even see some sharks.”
    A wave broke near the shore and pummeled our ankles. Jimmy took another step to the left and leaned over to check the entry. “It’s sandy right here. You’ll be okay as long as you get your feet up fast. Use the waves.”
    “It looks rough out there . . .” I said for the second time.
    “On top of the water, sure. But twenty feet down? Not a problem. You remember that big tsunami in Asia? There were people diving when it happened, and they didn’t even know about the big wave till it was over.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “I’m just a worrier.”
    “I know,” he said. “And I love that about you.”
    A wave swelled and broke, and he plunged in before another could knock him over. His back to the breakers, he pulled on his flippers in one smooth motion and then, still facing the beach, kicked back toward the open ocean, his inflated BCD keeping his head bobbing above the waves. He grew smaller and smaller until he made it past the rock outcropping.
    He waved. I waved back.
    And then he disappeared below the surface.
     
     
    Jimmy’s “just rough on the surface” line was a load of crap. The sea bottom churned below me, fogging the water with sand and driving the fish who knows where. Maybe they were out in the deep water with Jimmy, I told myself. Where the ocean was calm and safe.
    I don’t know how long I was out there. It probably felt longer than it was, what with clearing my leaky mask and gagging on the water when the waves broke over my snorkel.
    Finally, I gave up and swam back to the shore, trying (and failing) to get in without being smacked by a wave. Back on land, I coughed out some of the salt water and dried myself as best as possible with my rough bathroom towel. Maybe on the way home we’d stop off at the ABC store and buy a couple of beach towels. Ten dollars each: only the best for my Hawaiian vacation.
    I hadn’t brought an extra towel to sit on since the plan was to spend the entire time in the water. Jimmy’s dry white towel was tempting, but I left it in