I try to plan a route from rock to rock that will take me out beyond the surf. I pull the hood on, tighten the closure, shove my pants into my socks, put my head down, and go.
At first it’s challenging, but not too bad. My boots are clumsy but the rocks are so craggy that I don’t have any trouble finding footholds. At a certain point, I can’t avoid the sea spray and I get a little wet. But then I come to a spot where there’s no way to avoid going into the water without retracing my steps and losing maybe half an hour.
There’s nothing for it. I don’t have any choice: I go in up to my hips, holding the backpack to my chest. It’s a clumsy process, thrashing through the cold water. The tug of the riptide means that I almost have to walk sideways, crabbing my way toward the rock.
By the time I’m on the rocks again, my legs are numb. The air temperature can’t be more than sixty and there’s a wind, so being out of the water doesn’t provide much relief. I keep going, and the exertion helps me warm up.
As the sun goes down and the temperature drops, the cold is only going to get worse. I’m going to have to be very careful not to fall in.
I did a good bit of rock climbing, back before the boys were born. I liked the energy, precision, and focus it required. Most of all, I liked to test myself – to parcel out the risk in what amounted to controlled doses.
In a way, it was the opposite of what I did at work. Working in a war zone, you do everything you can to minimize the risk, but it’s not something that you can control. The danger comes at you from the outside and it doesn’t come in doses.
Rock climbing is the opposite: You choose where to put your hand or foot. You alone know if you’re strong enough or flexible enough to make a move. You might still get unlucky, get some bad rock, but for the most part you operate inside your own capability and fear. I liked that.
This is different. For one thing, I never climbed wet rock. For another I’m not really climbing to a summit. I’m climbing up and down only enough to traverse a lot of rugged terrain. And unlike recreational climbing, I’m in a hurry, with no option of bailing out because of cramp or fatigue. And instead of the velvety rubber of climbing shoes that can grab a tiny bump or crevice with conviction, I’m wearing hiking boots that require huge gouges or ridges as footholds. I’d take the boots off – and I may still have to do this – but my feet would be in shreds within minutes. And they’re cold. I can’t actually feel them anymore.
Still, I’m getting there. Before I left the Sea Ranch beach, I picked out the tallest pair of rock formations within the boundaries of Mystère. It’s a little hard to be sure, but it seems to me – by sighting toward the two spires – that I’ve traversed far enough inside the fence line to turn back toward shore.
I stop for a moment on a rock that offers a good high perch and look ahead, trying to pick out a route through the surf line. The surf break is far from clean and linear, as it is on a beach. Because of the rock formations and the topography of the bottom, it’s chaotic and broad. Where the surf really boils against the pillars and boulders, I can’t go into the water. I’m going to need rock, contiguous rock.
I’m slowly making my way through the surf break when it happens: a little jump from one rock to the next – an easy jump. But the rock is wet and I land wrong and my ankle turns and the next thing I know, I’m in the water.
To say it takes my breath away doesn’t begin to describe it. Not only does the cold water squeeze out the air from my lungs – the lungs themselves don’t work at all. The moment I fell happened to be in the lull, just before the wave breaks and crashes. That was a piece of luck, and at first I think it’s going to be all right, I’ll be able to climb out.
And I start to, but before I make it to a good place to hang on, a wave crashes down on me. It seems to happen in slow motion, the way the surf tears me free, tumbles me over. The sound is deafening.
I try to grab onto a rock, scrabbling my fingernails for purchase, wedging my foot against the boulder’s base. I’ve got it, until the water begins to recede. There’s a tremendous sucking sound, a clatter and rush of gravel, and my grip on the rock is torn away. A second later, I’m slammed against rock.
Now, for the first time, things begin to feel seriously out of control. I still can’t breathe, and I think I may have slashed my left calf. I felt something – not pain, exactly, because I’m too cold for that. A burning sensation in my leg.
I know that if I don’t get out of the water now, right now, before another wave tags me, I’m not going to make it.
Something propels me. The thought of Sean and Kevin and what awaits them? Yes. The thought of my broken body in the surf? That, too. We’re hardwired to produce an extra boost of energy to escape danger, so it must be a massive jolt of adrenaline that powers me out of the sea. Whatever it is, I climb the rock face like Spiderman, high enough to reach an outcrop I can wrap my arms and legs around. The wave hits and it sucks at my legs, but I don’t think a bomb could have dislodged me.
I’m in bad shape as I close in on the shoreline. The light is fading, it’s getting colder, my ankle and my calf hurt, and I’m shivering uncontrollably. The backpack is heavy. I consider tossing the Maglite – I’m sure the salt water ruined the batteries – but I don’t want to take the time. I move forward slowly, from behind one rock to the next, looking for the red eyes of surveillance cameras. Or any sign of motion. I see nothing. And then, at last, I’m back on dry land.
I find a sheltered spot and drink some of the water in my backpack. I take my boots off, dump the seawater out of them, squeeze out the wool socks. My ankle is the size of a small grapefruit. I put it all back on, lacing up the boot as tight as I can for support. I take a quick look at the gash on my calf. It gapes open like a mouth, the air against the pinkish flesh stings, but it doesn’t look so bad. The salt water was probably good for it.
I take off my fleece, my sweater, my T-shirt. Wring them out, put them back on. I still can’t stop shaking.
The kitchen knife is gone – it must have come out of the pack when I was in the water. The flashlight doesn’t work, but I decide to keep it anyway, the only weapon I have now. I take a look at the cell phone, but no: there’s water inside the Ziploc bag. It’s toast too.
I feel like I need a forklift to get to my feet, but I manage to push myself up. It’s twilight – the sun is already down. I have to find the site of the performance.
Amidst the rocks, and in the dusk, I can’t get a sight line on the two rock spires I’d picked out before. I was sure that these would provide the setting for tomorrow’s performance, but as I stumble around in the warren of rock formations – wasn’t I just here? – doubt suffuses me. Maybe I should just go for the house, after all.
And then I find it.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but the theater takes my breath away.
A flattened gravel stage is defined by huge concrete urns overflowing with flowers, greenery swagged between them. In this spectacular location, facing the stage and beyond it the sea, a tiny amphitheater has been fashioned. Set back from the stage only a few feet, three semicircles of polished granite are stepped back into the natural rise of the land.
The little theater is so beautiful as to make its terrible purpose even more chilling. To the right of the stage a latticed screen, draped with vines and flowers, conceals several padlocked chests – and, under a large canvas tarp, an enormous basket.
I’d like to look around some more. I’d like to reconnoiter – for the path that leads to the theater, for instance – but I’ve already abandoned the idea of waylaying the party on the way to prepare for the morning’s entertainment. I know, from reading about the trick, that Boudreaux may well have an assistant, maybe two. I’d be outnumbered, and except for the Maglite, unarmed.