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Chapter 5: The Trek Through the Marsh
The walk through the salt marsh was a nightmare for them. For me, it was just another Tuesday.
I led them off the pier and into the tall, sharp grass. The water was already knee-deep, pulling at their legs. Every time Blake slipped into a mud hole, he yelped, his dignity dissolving with every inch of muck that stained his designer clothes.
I kept a grueling pace. I wanted them to feel the weight of the land. I wanted them to understand that the world they built with their fathers’ money didn’t exist out here. Out here, you are only as good as your lungs and your legs.
Sarah fell twice. The second time, she stayed down, sobbing. Miller and the other boy were too exhausted to help her. They were staring at their feet, moving like zombies.
I stopped and walked back to her. I didn’t say a word. I reached down and hoisted her up, throwing her arm over my shoulder. She was shaking so hard it felt like she was vibrating.
“Why are you helping us?” she whispered, her voice cracked. “After what we did?”
“Because unlike you,” I said, “I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of something bigger than me. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even people like you.”
We reached the main road just as the first police cruiser’s lights cut through the fog. Blake’s father had called the Coast Guard when the boat’s GPS showed it drifting toward the open sea.
When we stepped onto the asphalt, the paramedics rushed forward with blankets. They wrapped Blake first—of course they did. They saw a rich boy in distress and a Black kid in a wetsuit, and they made their assumptions.
Officer Miller, the local cop who knew my dad, walked over to me. He looked at the shivering group of teens and then at me. He saw the dive knife on my leg. He saw the look in my eyes.
“Elias,” he said softly. “The boat’s on the rocks near Goat Island. What happened out there?”
I looked at Blake. Blake was looking at me, his face a mask of terror. He knew that if I told the truth—about the push, the racial slurs, the intent—his “perfect” future at the Ivy League school his dad bought him into would vanish.
I looked at the ocean, visible now as the fog began to lift. It was calm again.
“The mooring line snapped, Officer,” I said. “The tide was too strong. I tried to swim for it, but it was moving too fast. I just focused on getting them off the pier before the road flooded.”
Blake let out a breath so long it sounded like a deflating balloon. He looked away, unable to meet my eyes.
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Chapter 6: The Weight of the Deep
The aftermath was a whirlwind of insurance adjusters and angry parents. The Harrington Pride was a total loss, its hull shredded by the granite teeth of the Maine coast.
Blake’s father tried to blame me at first, but Sarah and Miller stayed silent. They didn’t defend me, but they didn’t lie for Blake either. That was their version of bravery, I suppose. It was the most I could expect from them.
A week later, I was back at the pier. I was prepping my gear for a commercial salvage job. The air was crisp, and the water was a deep, inviting sapphire.
I heard footsteps on the wood. It was Blake. He looked different. The swagger was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out look. His father had taken away his car, and word had gotten out about how he’d lost the boat. He was no longer the king of the marina; he was the kid who’d been outsmarted by the sea.
He stood a few feet away, watching me check my regulator.
“My dad thinks you cut that line,” he said.
I didn’t look up. “Does he?”
“I told him you didn’t,” Blake said. “I told him it was an accident.”
I paused, looking at him. “Why?”
“Because you could have left us there,” Blake said. He looked out at the water, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes—not the fear of a bully, but the fear of a man who realized how small he truly was. “And because I know that if I ever end up in that water again… you’re the only one who knows how to find me.”
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a smile. I just pulled my mask down over my eyes.
“I’m not doing it for you, Blake,” I said. “I’m doing it for the water. It doesn’t like trash cluttering up the bottom.”
I turned and stepped off the edge of the pier. I didn’t wait for a push this time. I entered the water perfectly, a silent blade cutting through the surface.
I sank down, down into the quiet, down where the light turns blue and the noise of the world disappears. My father was right. The ocean is honest. It doesn’t care about the color of your skin or the weight of your wallet; it only cares how long you can hold your breath.
And I can hold mine forever.
The salt doesn’t just wash away the dirt; it preserves the things that are strong enough to survive the cold.
