Page 34 of The Other Brother

My stomach falls away.

Shit.

Before I have time to think, I’m moving. I whip around and splash through the surf a few steps before I jump onto my board. Salty spray hits my face as I paddle as fast as I can.

Holy Crap. Is this happening? My brain struggles to catch up as my breath comes in short pants, and my arm muscles burn as I plough through the water.

The large waves I was so happy about a few moments ago? I’m now cursing them, because I keep getting pushed back and it’s taking me longer to get out there.

I wipe one of my hands over my face, trying to get rid of the water spray so I can see better.

Where is he? Am I even heading in the right direction?

Bridging the top of the next wave, the flash of red is right in front of me. A kid around eight or nine wearing a red and black wetsuit. The brief burst of happiness at finding him vanishes when my eyes focus in. Because he’s facedown in the water.

Holy, holy crap.

Panic and adrenaline surge through me. I paddle toward him frantically, my arms screaming in protest.

Terror claws inside my throat, trying to escape.

I did a surf lifesaving course last summer, but I’m scrambling now, my thoughts flying in all directions as I try to remember what I’m supposed to do. There’s only one consistent thought my brain is clinging to. I can’t screw this up. I can’t screw this up.

When I reach him, I stretch both arms out to grab him.

His body is like a dead weight, like a floppy fish on the end of the line, and it takes all my strength to turn him over onto his back. I can hardly hear myself think above the noise of my own breathing.

Holy hell.

Flipped on his back now, his eyes are closed, his face pale, and he has two stripes of orange and black zinc across the bridge of his nose. Like his mum carefully drew tiger stripes on his face this morning, getting ready for a day at the beach.

When I see those stripes of zinc, it’s like something clicks in my brain. The voice of the instructor Rick comes back to me, his calm tone echoing in my head like he’s right there, reminding me what I need to do.

Jumping off my board into the water, I put my surfboard between us and grab his limp hands, pulling them onto the edge of the board. Then I tug the board towards me, and it rolls over, lifting him up so his armpit and head are out of the water. When I pull the board over again, his body moves onto the board.

“Can you hear me?” I ask. Shit, my voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s high pitched and shaky.

No response.

Damn. I’ve got to get him back to the beach.

“It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you.”

Grabbing his arms and yanking him around so he’s lying lengthwise on the board, I jump on behind him.

I reach forward to touch his chest.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I don’t think he’s breathing.

I turn the board around and keeping one hand on the boy to make sure he’s not going to fall off, riding the waves as much as I can on my knees. This time the swell is my friend.

Forty feet to go. Thirty. Twenty. Ten…

I jump off the board to hold on to him as we come through the choppy white water.

The water churns around my legs, trying to whip them out from under me. I concentrate on plowing through the ocean as fast as possible toward the beach.