Charlotte had stopped off at the showers, raising her face into the water and slicking back her hair as if she was entirely alone, and not on a public beach. She was well aware of John watching her. She turned off the shower, and walked into the toilets. John followed. No one else was there and he knew where to find Charlotte: in the changing cubicle at the end of the line of toilets. He tapped on the door and she opened up. Straightaway he slipped his hand into her bikini bottoms. He knew that she preferred to keep them on, she’d told him she liked to feel their tautness around her. His fingers searched and found the soft, wet smoothness she had shown him. He lifted her onto the slatted wooden bench and pushed her bottoms to one side, opening her up gently with his fingers, then pushing his tongue up and down her, around her, just where she had shown him, just the way he knew she liked it. She had taught him so much. She pushed her arms against the sides of the cubicle, stopping herself from falling and she was so wet that he couldn’t tell what was her and what was his own saliva. The poor boy was drunk with love. Out of his mind with it. Even when they heard someone come in, he couldn’t stop, and she wouldn’t have stopped him anyway. They heard a bolt slam, they heard a gush of someone else’s pee, and she pulled down his trunks and pushed herself onto him, wrapping her legs around him and kissing his mouth, and taking what had been hers, from his mouth into her own and swallowing it back into herself. And he clung to her, and held her, stronger than her and yet not. And then it was over, and she smiled and took his face in her hands as if he were a little boy. She kissed him on his lips, on his neck, and then finally on his forehead. A punctuation mark so that he would know that was all for now.
They waited for the intruder to leave and then Charlotte opened the door and looked out. She went first, he followed a few moments later. She showered again but John kept walking, passing his towel and running straight into the sea, plunging down into a wave.
Little Noah was still in his boat, chatting away to himself. Charlotte had been longer than she thought. The mother had packed up their things; she and her family needed to go. She waved good-bye to Noah and Charlotte thanked her, stroking her son’s head as she did so. Then she watched, on guard again, as he pulled his dinghy closer to the sea. He wasn’t in the water, he was on the sand. He was happy. She hugged her knees and looked at him, smiling at his contentment. She was exhausted and lay down. If she turned her head just a little, she could still see Noah. John returned to his towel, rubbing himself down, looking at Charlotte, but her head was turned away, so he lay on his back and closed his eyes too. He dozed, thinking about the night ahead, a smile on his face as he imagined what they would do to each other.
When he woke the wind had got up and he put on his T-shirt. Charlotte was asleep. It was then that John noticed Noah. He was still in the boat, but floating now in the shallows, happy being bounced around by the sea. In, out, in, out. Charlotte woke and turned to see what John was looking at. Perhaps she was surprised that something, other than her, had caught his attention. In, out, in, out went the dinghy, but each time the out was a little farther and the in a little less. The sea had become rough and there was a strong undercurrent dragging on the dinghy, pulling it out, a space of choppy water growing between Noah and the shore, where other people swam and played, but none of them noticed the little English boy drifting out to sea.
John stood up and looked over to Charlotte. She was on her feet, but they didn’t move. They stayed planted on her towel. She looked at John, fear on her face, then back at Noah, but still she didn’t move. She called out to Noah, and then she called out to John. “Help,” she said. “Help me.” And John would do anything for her. He ran immediately to the water’s edge, and only then did she move. John led the way and she followed. She called to Noah again and he looked up and waved back at her, not a bit frightened. And still no one did anything and there were no lifeguards on the beach, but John could see that Noah’s boat was heading out in the wrong direction. Heading out to sea. Soon he would be a speck in the distance….
John ran, kicking sand into sunbathers, and dived into the sea. He swam out towards Noah. Strong, a strong young man, a strong swimmer. The current pulled at him, but he went with it, letting the sea use its energy to pull him towards the little boy, so he could conserve his for the swim back. It was a strategy. He knew what he was doing, and he focused on his strokes, clean, powerful. And he reached Noah and then he saw how frightened he was, calling out to his mother, but she wouldn’t have been able to hear him. He must have wondered why she didn’t come and get him. Why hadn’t she swum out for him? He was trying to stand but he kept falling — the waves licking the sides of the dinghy and spitting into it. The plastic was too slippery and the boat rocked too much. He was in a panic, a blind panic. John tried to calm him down. He told him to sit still and hold on tight to the handles on the boat. But the little boy was frozen, staring towards the beach, hoping that his mother would come and get him. John grabbed the rope and made a fist around it then began the swim back to shore.
He could see a line of people watching, and at the heart of them, Charlotte in her red bikini. He used every muscle in his body, pushed them harder than he ever had before. Red, glossy sinews pulling, stretching, blood pumping. The sea had become his enemy, no longer carrying him, but pushing him back instead. And the wind had joined forces with it, whipping the waves, bouncing the boat as if trying to tip Noah out and John had called to him to hold tight. When he looked back Noah was still rigid, gripping the handles but still staring beyond John, searching for his mother. Perhaps he thought the boat was making its own way back to shore.
John’s eyes stung from the salt and his body had gone numb. He had become an automaton, arms and legs propelling him forward. There was no strategy now. He swam to the rhythm of the blood thumping in his ears. And then two men, two other brave men, broke away from the group and ran, then swam into the sea towards the young man and boy. One was ahead of the other, a stronger swimmer. He was fast, the sea helping him, sending him towards John and Noah, and he reached them and took the rope from John, pulling the precious cargo back towards the beach. No time for niceties, the man turned straight round and swam back. John reached out to hold on to the back of the dinghy.
As the man approached the shore others rushed in to help him, grabbing the boat, taking care of the child. John saw them and he saw that Noah was safe. He saw them on the shore. He was still in the sea — a long way out. He’d lost his grip, but no one had noticed him: he watched as the second rescuer turned back, joining the throng and pulling the little boy to safety. John’s hands were white with cold and streaked with red where he had clung on to the rope. He couldn’t feel his hand. All he could feel were his lungs. They had grown, become outsize, no longer room for them in his rib cage. He gasped for breath, but instead he took in a mouthful of water. He had wasted precious time not swimming. Looking at his hand, thinking about his lungs, and the sea had pushed him back and he would have to swim every stroke again just to get back to the point where he had released Noah.