Free Island Boyz by Graham Salisbury

said. “Too dangerous outside. You boys go home.”
    “We’re going there now,” I said, peeling the paper from my Fudgsicle.
    “Good. You be smart boys, now.”
    We walked out and headed for the beach.
    The sand was gone, covered now with a wild, frothy-white ocean that churned and boiled its way up over the beach and into people’s yards. I was glad we had ponchos, because the rain stung and the wind shredded palm fronds and tore olive-sized pinecones off the ironwood trees and machine-gunned them past our heads.
    I faced into the wind and opened my mouth. It blew my hood off and popped out my cheeks. I threw my Fudgsicle stick toward the sea, and it blew it back over my shoulder. Willy couldn’t make his go forward, either.
    “Let’s check the canal!”
Willy shouted, his poncho snapping in the wind. He gripped it under his chin to keep the hood on his head.
    I yelled back, but the wind ripped the words right out of my mouth.
    We lurched over to a grove of trees that overlooked the canal. On a regular day it bogged up there. But today the water was alive and pulsing toward the sea in fat, muddy gulps.
    The wind nearly knocked me over. I had to spread my feet apart to stand my ground. I got this urge to go down to the edge of the water and feel its power as it raced to the sea.
    I glanced at Willy, then inched down the slope, grabbing ironwood roots where they were exposed in the bank. Clumps of wet sand broke away under my feet and slid down and were immediately eaten by the fast-moving water.
    “What are you doing?”
Willy shouted, his voice flying away in the wind.
    “Going down to the water!”
    “Why?”
    I didn’t answer. Too hard.
    I studied the swirling mud-water gushing below me. It didn’t look so bad. I inched closer, so close now I could stick my foot in. I waded out a step, then another. Up to my knees. The heavy water tugged at my shins. I dug into the sand as it fell away beneath my feet.
    I looked up at Willy and yelled,
“Yeee-haaa!”
    Willy grinned and started down the slope.
    Foop!
    The angry water ripped my feet out from under me and took me down.
    And under.
    The poncho clamped around me, blinded me. Pinned my arms back. I came up, went under, came up again, gasping as I sailed toward the sea. I tried to swim, but my arms were tangled in the poncho. My sweatshirt sucked up water like a sponge. I caught a glimpse of Willy stumbling down the slope, then racing along the shore parallel to me. I went under again. Gritty water scraped my eyeballs.
    Gagging. Choking.
    Horror slammed me. I was going to die.
    The current spit me closer to shore. I dug my toes into the sand, trying to stop. But the force of the river was fierce.
    Willy sprinted along the beach, hood off, poncho flapping. I tried to yell but could only gag and spit. I struggled to free my arms.
    My feet slowed me some, but I couldn’t get close enough to shore. I sailed out and out, racing toward the frenzied sea.
    Willy yelled something.
    I managed to work my right arm out from under the poncho and claw my way toward him, now almost into the throat of the canal, where the riptide screamed into the ocean.
    Willy stepped into the water and reached out and grabbed my hand, his eyes bulging. He pulled too quickly, and our hands slipped apart. I clawed air, trying to get back to him. Willy reached and reached, stumbling ahead. He fell to his knees and caught my hand. I swung in an arc to shallower water, my suffocating poncho dragging me under.
    But Willy held on and pulled me out.
    The two of us staggered up and stumbled away from the canal, tripping and falling. I started gagging, then crying.
    We sprawled in the sand up near the trees, the wind howling in my ears, snapping through my tangled, sand-caked hair. I was shivering so hard I could hardly breathe, rocking and weeping silently.
    “You okay?”
Willy shouted, even though he was right next to me.
    I nodded.
    My throat stung from swallowed mud and sand. I could feel the