Chapter 11 - The Harbor
Two years later.
The ocean pool at the coastal reserve in Gloucester was quiet at seven in the morning.
The water was a deep, translucent emerald, held within a natural basin of gray granite rocks that met the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean. The morning sun was just breaking over the horizon, painting the sky in long, brilliant brushstrokes of pink and gold.
I stood on the edge of the granite coping wearing a dark blue athletic swimsuit.
Beside me, standing on the rock with his hands in his pockets, was Caleb. He was holding a large white towel, watching the calm water with a soft smile.
“Water temperature is sixty-two degrees,” Caleb called out over the sound of the ocean waves. “You sure about this?”
I looked down at the bright, clear water six feet below me.
My right shoulder was completely smooth, the two surgical scars faded into faint, silver lines that were barely visible against my skin. I could swing a tennis racket, lift fifty-pound weight stacks at the clinic, and swim two miles without a single ache.
For three years, the memory of water had been attached to terror—to the sudden, violent shock of falling, the sound of laughter, and the sickening tear of broken tendons.
I looked at Caleb.
“I’m sure,” I smiled.
I bent my knees, swung both arms back in a smooth, synchronized motion—left and right moving in perfect, flawless harmony—and launched myself off the edge of the granite rock.
I flew through the morning air, arc-ing cleanly over the surface, and sliced into the cool ocean water with an effortless, perfect entry.
The water was cold, crisp, and invigorating.
I reached forward with my right arm, pulling through the heavy water with powerful, rhythmic strokes. My shoulder moved smoothly in its socket, the four bone anchors holding with absolute, unyielding strength.
I surfaced twenty yards out, kicking my legs, wiping the salt water from my face with my right hand, and turned to look back at the shore.
Caleb was standing on the granite rocks, holding the towel, laughing with pure, unfiltered joy as he clapped his hands. High above us on the coastal trail, Dad was walking down the path holding two cups of morning coffee, waving his hand toward the ocean.
I floated on my back, looking up at the wide, endless blue sky.
The water didn't hurt me.
The pool hadn't broken me.
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My sister’s cruelty had attempted to drown me in the silence of my family’s excuses, but in pushing me into that water, she had accidentally stripped away the only thing that was holding me down: my willingness to be their victim.
I turned back toward the shore, pulled my right arm forward, and swam toward the light.
