Free Dead in the Water by Glenda Carroll

switched on my digital camera and previewed the pictures from the swim. There it all was. Shots of the swimmers galloping down the beach to the ocean. Galloping out of the ocean at the finish line. Menton and Jackie were in the last few photos. He looked happy. She looked bored. Next photo was the drink booth behind them. There was Justin. And there was Daisy Menton and her boyfriend. Justin was handing something to Jackie. Daisy and friend were handing out white paper cups filled with the replenishment drink Justin told me about. The rest of the pictures documented the work of the lifeguards paddling the course, and the awards ceremony—good background material I could use to supplement my evaluation.
    Grabbing my backpack, I walked through the dark bar, now filled with many swimmers from the Cold Water Clash. I headed into the glaring noontime sunshine for the car. A quiet sense of satisfaction drifted over me. Out of nowhere, I had an almost fulltime job. Okay, the job was temporary and it wasn’t exactly what I planned to do (I didn’t really know what I planned to do), but it would bring in money. And this swim evaluation part was more than interesting. It was a rare chance to go behind the scenes to see how events like this were put on.
    Justin seemed like a nice guy, even if he didn’t come highly recommended by Pamela or Spencer. There are always two sides to a story. And I’d find out his. Anyway, he was someone I could tap for the background info on swims and swimmers. And he liked baseball.

.
    8
    I decided to take the coast route back to the San Francisco Bay area. Sure, it might add about 15 – 20 minutes to the trip, but driving next to the ocean, seeing the coastline, the Montara lighthouse, the waves crashing into the rocks sounded more enjoyable than a mad dash up the freeway.
    I pointed the car north, enjoying the brashness of the Northern California coast. Not far from the small coastal community of Casitas Cove, I could see many flashing red, yellow, white, and blue lights. Up ahead were one, two, maybe even three emergency vehicles. Traffic slowed down and then stopped. I rolled down the window. The wind had picked up, blowing off the ocean. Long wispy strands of fog were drifting in. It was already 10 to 15 degrees cooler than Santa Cruz. The air smelled of salt—salt and waves that had flowed over long distances to reach the shores of Northern California.
    Slowly, traffic began to move along the narrow two-lane road. On one side was a sheer granite cliff with almost no shoulder where a car could stop; on the other side, the ocean side, was a sharp 30-foot drop to the beach. Sandwiched between the two, I inched along, past fire trucks, an ambulance, police cars and a tow truck. It looked like someone or something had driven off the edge of the cliff. Glancing down at the ocean, I could see a car upsidedown on its smashed roof in the shallow cold water.
    Tragic. Whoever it was was probably out for a nice afternoon drive along the ocean and lost control of the car.
    After a quick look at the emergency personnel down on the sand surrounding the car, I knew I had to stop, turn around and go back to the parking lot for the beach. Even from a hundred yards away, I could identify Mike Menton standing next to the overturned car.

    By the time I pulled into the long narrow parking lot, the crowds gawking at the accident from both the road above and the beach had doubled. How did Mike manage to drive off the road? I grabbed my phone, my camera, climbed down the rocky path and ran toward him.
    Normally, the explosion of the surf crashing at the water’s edge and the whistle of the wind off the ocean dampens any beach noise. But not today. In between the crash of the shore waves, for a brief second, each sound was crystal clear. I heard the crackle and scratchy echo of the radios on the emergency vehicles. The wind blew the loud voices of the rescue personnel toward me. One voice didn’t have the controlled