The Siren's Call

By Matthew S. Urdan

Throughout our lives, we all come into contact with some amazing people. Some of them come, some of them go, and some of them even stay for a while. At its heart, The Sirens Call is the story of the love between friendswhat we do to sustain our friendships, and, sadly, what we do to destroy them. Hopefully in that process somewhere lies a bit of redemption.

Steven Perry and Kenneth Pierson are best friends and trusted partners in the successful Detroit law firm they co-founded. They are handsome, young, bright, and at the top of their game with the world at their feetthat is until Steves fiance is killed by a drunk driver. Consumed by grief, Steve cant sleep. So in the middle of the night Steve impulsively drives to Kips northern Lake Michigan retreat in an attempt to escape and begins to hear voices in his head.

Concerned for his friends sanity, Kip convinces Steve to join him in Hawaii for a much needed extended vacationspring break style. Fun in the sun, hilarious hijinks, surfing lessons, remembered dreams and unexpected meetings with friends from home all ensue. But while Steve struggles to deal with his own grief and potentially gestating madness, he begins to suspect that Kip is wrestling with his own demons that Kip refuses to revealstressing their relationship to the breaking point. But as Kips best friend, Steve cannot imagine neither the depth of Kips deception nor the terrible secret he is hiding.

Filled with raw emotional power and vivid images of the surrounding landscapes, The Sirens Call is an unforgettable story of two friends trying to cope with profound grief the best way they know how and make sense out of a senseless personal tragedy. The sirens are calling. Read this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468506860

Matthew S. Urdan

Matthew S. Urdan has worked in or for his grandfather’s drugstore, the West Bloomfield Public Library, a movie megaplex, an environmental consulting firm, an information management firm, a whitewater rafting company, the International Whitewater Hall of Fame and numerous restaurants as well as successfully coaching high school debate and forensics. Originally from the Detroit area, Matthew learned to swim in northern Lake Michigan where his family spent their summers in Charlevoix. Now residing in Gatlinburg, TN, the Great Smoky Mountains are his backyard and whitewater rivers everywhere are his playground. Discover more at http://www.thesirenscall.net

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The Siren’s Call

Matthew S. Urdan

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

© 2012 Matthew S. Urdan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 1/5/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0685-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0686-0 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0687-7 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011961505

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgement

About the Cover

Paradise Lost

Trance

Haven

Possession

Encounter with Manitous

Stasis

Of Damon and Pythias

Craters of the Moon

Quilted Dreams

Home-leaving

Aloha

Meltwater

Torrents

Meanderings

Delta

Pele

The Stars Were Bright

The Goddess of Ice and Snow

The Lesson of the

Ohia Lehua Flower

First Breath

About the Author

Dedication

Throughout our lives, we all come into contact with some amazing people. Some of them come, some of them go, and some of them even stay for a while. At its heart, The Siren’s Call is the story of the love between friends—what we do to sustain our friendships, and, sadly, what we do to destroy them. Hopefully in that process somewhere lies a bit of redemption.

The Siren’s Call is for my friends.

For the West Bloomfield High School Class of 1983. For better or for worse, we all grew up together and helped make each other who we are.

For James L. Carey, who was always there during the very worst moments of my life when I was often at my best, and when I was regrettably at my worst.

For the staff of the West Bloomfield Township Library, 1981-1998, who were in many ways my family.

For Hazel Rybicki, Susan Malette, Sherri Fisher, Ruth Leinweber, and Sandra Sutherland—who were my greatest teachers. They were the ones who taught me how to read and to love reading, and who taught me how to think and how to write—both formally and creatively.

For all the students, teachers, judges and coaches who were a part of the 1994-1995 Michigan High School Debate and Forensics Community. This was a very special group of the brightest, most motivated, most talented, most competitive and genuinely most cordial individuals that I have ever known, and from whom I continue to learn a great deal.

And for Mike Cavin. More than a quarter century later, even though we are separated by distance, our friendship is still burning brightly.

Acknowledgement

The cover art photograph for The Siren’s Call is courtesy of Matthew D. Kennedy and Copyright 2011 MDK Global Design Studios, located at 5 Tudor City Place, New York, NY 10017. It is used with permission.

About the Cover

The cover photography depicts one of Aragorn’s Fire Sculptures taken at Trellis Bay in the British Virgin Islands during a full moon party on May 17, 2011.

Each of the Fire Sculptures are uniquely designed and created by hand from steel spheres ranging in size from 12 inches to 5 feet in diameter. They are made by hand cutting elaborate stories out of steel balls and then fueling them with local driftwood. Setting them ablaze is a sight full of fantasy for the viewer. With each phase of the fire, from raging start to ember-glowing finish, the imagery changes.

Fire is symbolic of so much and the nature in which it inspires is immeasurable. The Siren’s Call makes use of fire imagery throughout the novel in its dual role as creative and destructive forces. The particular fire sculpture photograph chosen for the cover image features three musicians playing their instruments, and perhaps, like the sirens of Homer’s Odyssey, summoning unwary listeners to their doom.

When is a legend legend? Why is a myth a myth? How old and disused must a fact be for it to be relegated to the category ‘Fairy-Tale’? And why do certain facts remain incontrovertible while others lose their validity to assume a shabby, unstable character?

—Anne McCaffrey, from Dragonflight

Paradise Lost

An automobile is nothing more than a tool of the devil. I know that now, but I’ve come to that realization only recently.

From the day my mother gave me my first matchbox car, back home in a rapidly growing Detroit suburb, I dreamed of owning the real thing and being able to drive it anywhere I wanted to go. Since the automobile had been invented and Henry Ford had perfected the art of mass production, this dream of ownership had become so common by the time my brothers and I were born and learned what cars were, and what having one meant, that learning to drive and getting a driver’s license and being handed a set of keys had become a rite of passage—from a father to his son like the skill of catching a football or learning how to ride a bike. Like how to tie a tie or how to pleasure a woman. There are many rites of passage, but perhaps the desire of owning that first car and the dream of driving it is the most seductive of them all.

Like the arrival of a new baby home from the hospital, the appearance of a new car in our driveway was always a special occasion. Dad would come home late from work on a warm summer night, the sun glowing neon in the sky, and honk the horn of a shiny new car as he parked in front of the garage. Mom would gather me and my brothers together and shepherd us outside and into the new car and out to a late dinner or ice cream. On the way to our destination, which was a treat in itself, we explored the car. We pressed every button, flicked every switch, found every handle or hidden pocket or armrest, all the while breathing in that sensual new car smell—the smell auto dealers and car salesmen have used as their number one weapon to close every deal and make every sale, often against the buyer’s better judgment. Just like making a deal with the devil.

The auto companies, which have contributed so much to the prosperity, growth and building of Detroit and the entire state of Michigan, will argue otherwise, of course. From their perspective, a car is an instrument of freedom—literally and figuratively, for during World War II the auto factories of Detroit became the Arsenal of Democracy. But during peacetime, a man can travel anywhere he wants to go in a car. At any time. In any condition. In a car, a man can drive to work or to school or take a family out to dinner or to a local beach or on some grand cross-country vacation and show them the wonders of the landscape. In a car, a man can impress and seduce a woman. He can take her out on a date, drive her home afterwards and solicit a goodnight kiss or something more. He can even share that kiss, or something more, inside the car itself. But just like a deal with the devil, all the conveniences and sense of freedom and experiences—and prosperity—to be had in cars or stemming from the industry that builds them, come with a price. Sooner or later, the devil will collect.

For only in a car can a man break traffic laws and get traffic tickets and incur civil infraction fines. Only in a car can a man run into a deer or a beloved dog or crash into another car causing potentially severe injury and property damage and, at best, inconvenience his life and the lives of others. And only in a car, like in a colossal collision between matter and anti-matter, can a man—in a careless or impaired blink of an eye—shatter lives and sever the bonds between a soul and his mate and cause time itself to stand still so that even the ancient spirits of heaven and earth pause in their travels from one plane of existence to another and take notice.

Yes. A car provides freedom. Sometimes to run and escape from life. But we do so at our own peril. I have done so at my own peril with terrible results. But for that, alone, I cannot apologize.

Trance

mile

after

endless

mile

past

oaks

and lakes

and towns

I

long

for you

while

counting

white

lines

and dreaming

of warm winds

blowing

stars

around

us

At the wheel, I heard the sound of Linda’s laughter enticing me into her arms. I felt her silky hair dancing on my naked skin. I pictured her green eyes: eyes so intelligent and bright they held my gaze and transported my soul to a place where hers awaited—a place of incomparable beauty, complete knowing and recondite joy. Again I wiped the tears from my cheek. I couldn’t believe she was gone.

A deer darted across the highway in front of me. It was gone before I could react, leaving nothing in its wake but an adrenaline rush and shivers running up and down my spine. I slowly caught my breath. The full moon shone through the tint of my windshield. I wondered where the deer had come from at this hour. Normally, deer are most active at dawn and dusk, but even then they tended to avoid the interstate. Perhaps it wasn’t a deer at all, but some Manitou on an errand of great import. I chuckled. I had been reading too much fantasy and science fiction. Manitous…sirens…the gods—they were all the same. Just tools of fiction writers playing havoc with mere mortals like me to move their stories along. What did they care?

I changed lanes to pass a lone truck seemingly obeying the speed limit. I glanced at the speedometer. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was getting there with dispatch. I rolled the windows down and opened the sunroof. The wind smelled sweet with dew as it rushed by, pausing only to rustle my hair. Like Linda used to with her fingers. I shivered. From the coolness of the night air. From the dampness. From the memory.

It seemed like yesterday we were sailing across Lake Michigan on the tall ship Malabar with Kip and Ellen, learning the art of wind jamming from the old salt-frees and listening to tales and lore of the lakes from our entertaining captain. Old Jack had a yarn for every occasion. On calm, clear evenings he delighted us with Indian legends of the origins of Sleeping Bear Dunes and Mackinac Island, among others. And when the wind churned the water into fifteen foot swells that crashed against the hull he frightened us with tales of Ten November and the Three Sisters. Our last night on board, after Jack had taught us a little how mariners of old steered by the stars in efforts to ascertain their longitude, and after the others had gone to bed below, the four of us imagined charting new courses on imaginary seas far from known lands and the people we knew. Out on the lake, without any land visible on the horizon, it didn’t require much creativity on our part. After stargazing, Kip and Ellen bid us good night and we fell asleep on deck gazing into the Milky Way. We woke to the sound of seagulls as the neon sun rose over the water. Linda complained about a slight kink in her neck. I massaged it. With my fingers working their magic on her knotted muscles, and Linda melting under my ministrations, I asked her to marry me as the glowing and yellowing sun climbed into the brightening blue sky. Time stopped the moment she turned around to face me. The expression on her face changed from relaxation to shock and surprise to elation all at once. My heart beat in my ears. She answered yes and fell into my arms. We kissed with the passion and promise of the morning sunshine, of our lives together. That was just barely a week before. So how could she be gone?

I turned the radio on and immediately I heard the voice of Enya entreating me to sail away, sail away, sail away. I turned the radio off and went back to counting white lines. I thought that if I concentrated hard enough I could keep her out of my thoughts, if only for a little while. One, two, three, four, it was working already, five, six, seven, good! Eight, nine, ten…November damn! It was no use.

I love you Linda! I cried out. What am I going to do without you?

I drove on. Sometimes I managed to keep the tears at bay. Sometimes I let them flow freely, letting the wind wipe them away. Lansing was just ahead. I saw the sign for US 127 North and impulsively I took the exit. Rainbow Point was probably the last place I should have gone then, but I thought that Kip’s summer place on Little Traverse Bay might provide the refuge I needed. And that counting white lines just might prevent my fall into the black hole of insanity.

US 127 merged with US 27 just north of the city. Now it was a straight shot to I-75 so I switched my mode to autopilot. I tried the radio again. Fleetwood Mac’s Rhiannon was not what I had in mind. I didn’t want to ponder whether or not I’d ever win, but the song ended so I left the station on—long enough to hear the opening notes of Don’t Know Much. Strike three. Something up ahead on the side of the highway caught my eye for just a moment, and then it disappeared into the shadows. I was sure it was another deer.

* * * * *

"Steeeven, a voice whispered softly. Steeeven."

Huh? I answered sleepily, my eyes beginning to glaze over.

"Steven love," the voice sang.

The familiar clear, sweet notes warmed my heart. I smiled. Lulled by the voice, I rested my head on the steering wheel.

"Steeeven—"

And then it registered. Linda! I exclaimed, bolting upright. I looked around me, but of course, she was not there. I did have company, however. Red, white, and blue lights were flashing in my rearview mirror, but it was not the Fourth of July. I pulled over to the shoulder, took my glasses off and wiped my eyes.

Good morning, sir, the state trooper said as he shined his flashlight in my face and around the inside of my car. May I see your driver’s license and registration please?

Uh, sure, I said, reaching for my wallet in the left rear pocket of my 501’s. I pulled out my driver’s license and registration and handed them to the trooper.

The trooper took them from me. I’ll be back in a minute, he said and walked back to his patrol car. I sank into my seat. My mind was blank. After several minutes he returned.

Could you step out of the car please, Mr. Perry?

What seems to be the problem, Trooper? I asked, stepping out of the car.

Where are you heading at this hour, Mr. Perry? The state police officer asked me, his flashlight shining in my face.

I squinted and tried to shield my eyes from the intense light. Up to Rainbow Point.

Rainbow Point?

It’s between Charlevoix and Petoskey.

I know where Rainbow Point is, Mr. Perry. Step over to the white line please, the trooper ordered, indicating the solid white line that borders the right edge of all highways.

I’m not drunk, I said.

I didn’t say that you were. Just step over to the line, please.

By this time I was a little annoyed. This guy thought I was drunk, and I would never drive after consuming alcohol. Especially not then. But I stepped over to the line without further argument.

Now walk ten feet along the line, putting each foot directly in front of the other.

I walked the ten feet.

Good, now walk back the same way.

I complied.

Now Mr. Perry, please recite the alphabet for me.

Would you like it backwards? I asked.

Forwards would be just fine, please, he replied without the slightest hint of annoyance.

I glanced at my watch. It was about 3:15 in the morning. I was standing on the edge of a rural highway in the middle of northern Michigan nowhere, under a full moon casting shadows everywhere. It was cool and damp. Millions of crickets and other assorted insects were performing their nightly rendition of the Chirping Symphony while the local neighborhood moths executed dizzying aerial maneuvers in front of the patrol car’s flashing lights. Considering the circumstances, the normalcy of the scene struck me as rather surreal. I sighed and recited the alphabet.

Very good, the trooper complemented me after I finished.

Yeah, well I got a masters in alphabet recitation from Yale.

The trooper frowned, but otherwise gave no indication of any irritation. What’s your business in Rainbow Point?

Not wanting to antagonize him any further, I censored my sarcasm. No business, I’m just visiting a friend.

Name?

Steven Perry.

"Your friend’s name."

Sorry. Ken Pierson.

I didn’t see any luggage in your car.

Don’t have any.

I see. Is Mr. Pierson expecting you?

Well, no. Not exactly. Listen Officer, what’s all this about? Don’t you just give speeders a ticket and send them on their way?

Trooper.

Sorry. Trooper.

You weren’t speeding.

Then why did you pull me over?

Because you have been weaving back and forth across both lanes of the highway at twenty-five miles an hour for the last quarter mile. I suspected that you might be intoxicated.

I see.

Obviously you’re not.

No, I never drink and drive.

So could you explain for me then why you were driving so slowly and weaving back and forth?

Uh, well, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and I haven’t been sleeping well. I guess, maybe, I was beginning to doze off.

I see. So you were feeling some stress and you couldn’t sleep so you decided to leave… the trooper glanced at my driver’s license, Southfield and drive all the way to Rainbow Point to see a friend who’s not expecting you in the middle of the night?

That’s about it, I said, doubting he believed me.

Well get some coffee then. There’s a twenty-four hour place in Alma up the road a bit.

I’ll do that.

And Mr. Perry, the trooper said as he handed back my license and registration, don’t make a habit of late night excursions. You might hurt yourself.

I won’t. Thank you, sir.

Good night, now, the trooper said, turning and walking back to his patrol car.

I returned to my car and continued on to Rainbow Point, being sure to make a quick stop in Alma for gas and coffee.

Haven

Up north, the air is different. You sense it as you near the lake. It’s as if all the stale or dirty air that passes over North America gets dumped into a giant washing machine at the end of Wisconsin, along with a Paul Bunyan size vat of Pine-Sol. Over the lake the air is agitated, rinsed and put through a spin cycle or two. By the time the air reaches Michigan it smells fresh. Clean again. As nature intended. You breathe it in and immediately your lungs know that they’re in contact with some premium grade gases.

But the difference extends beyond a simple assessment of the air’s purity. Intangible elements contribute to the air’s difference as well. I’m not sure how to describe it. I guess that’s why it’s intangible. But I can tell you what it’s not. It’s not the smell of ozone. It’s not the feel of lightning about to strike when the hackles on your neck begin to stand on end. And it’s not radiation leaking from the nuclear power plant four miles down the shore, either. It isn’t anything really physical, but rather, metaphysical. It’s a sense of awe in the presence of something truly great. It’s the overwhelming wonder of your first view of the Grand Canyon, standing from its rim and staring down into its depths. It’s the cry of an eagle soaring overhead. It’s the fragility of a daffodil blossom. It’s the voice of the wind as it passes through a tree’s branches. All of this, but different. Up north, the air is the breath of the lake as it’s inhaled and exhaled. It’s young. And it’s old. It’s wild. And it’s alive. Like the lake itself.

* * * * *

I turned right onto Rainbow Point Drive off of US 31 and I glimpsed the lake. The water appeared a gentle silvery blue in the early predawn light. The full moon, having accompanied me all night, hung low over the lake as if it was refusing to retire for the day until it was convinced that I had arrived safely.

I turned into Kip’s driveway and parked. The view of the lake, even semi-obstructed by the pine, cedar, and birch trees was spectacular. The modern two-story house sat far enough above the water to eliminate the threat of flood, but close enough to the shore to give phenomenal views of the lake. I got out of the car. It was 6:34, so I assumed Kip was still asleep. Behind the house a redwood deck and stairs led down to the water. I stepped off the last stair onto the sandy beach. I took off my Topsiders and socks and left them on the stairs. I bent down to roll up my jeans and walked to the water. A small wave washed ashore and rushed up to my toes. I wiggled them in the cool, wet sand.

Across Little Traverse Bay, Michigan rose four-hundred feet above the water, the eroded remnants of ancient Laurentian peaks. Like one long mountain. Mauna Loa. The name of the famous mountain I studied in Geology 101 entered my consciousness unbidden. Looking westward, towards the open water, the Michigan shore curved away as the Lower Peninsula narrowed from here to the Mackinac Bridge. I looked down and found a stone, sanded smooth from countless waves washing ashore over the eons since the glacial ice retreated. I picked it up in my right hand and walked a few steps into the lake so that the water covered my ankles. The shallow water was cold, but not unbearable. I dug my toes into the soft, sandy lake bottom. I rolled the stone in my hand into the correct position. It fit almost perfectly in the arc made by my thumb and index finger. I flicked my wrist and watched the stone fly. It skipped one two three, four, five, six…seven times before diving into deeper water, maybe a hundred feet offshore.

I looked around for more good skipping stones. A limitless number of stones covered the shoreline, but I was discriminating. I only wanted the perfectly smooth ones. Oh sure, almost any stone would skip, but the hunt for just the right skipper is half the fun.

Yo! A voice called out from the top of the stairs.

I turned around and saw Kip coming down the stairs in a pair of shorts with a towel around his thick neck. Even in the soft light of the early morning sky his dark hair was a stark contrast with his pale skin, and it looked as if someone had just taken both hands and spent some time mussing it up. I couldn’t help but chuckle. I knew he had just gotten out of bed, but images long buried in my memory of our old college pranks on each other—most involving hair prior to a date—started coming back to me. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood for reminiscing.

Good morning, I called out half-heartedly. As Kip stepped onto the sand I left the water and walked towards him. I didn’t stop until we were in each other’s arms and holding each other tightly, our cheeks pressed together. Tears started flowing again.

Shhh. It’s okay, Bro. It’s okay.

We sat down on the sand at the water’s edge, just out of reach of the playful waves coming ashore.

She’s gone, Kip. She’s really gone. I wiped the tears away and tried to collect myself.

I know. I’m so sorry, Steve.

It’s not fair, I said despondently.

I know, Kip said, looking away from me and out at the water.

After a short moment he turned back to face me. I’m a little surprised to see you. When did you get here?

I glanced at my watch and wiped my eyes again. About twenty minutes ago.

What? You didn’t drive all night, did you?

I couldn’t sleep. Around one I just got in the car and started driving. I didn’t plan to come all the way up here, but when I reached Lansing I just kind of said ‘what the hell’ and turned north.

Well you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. You know that.

Thanks, Hoss.

I’m going to swim out to the sandbar, Kip said, and pointed to the water. Want to come with me?

I don’t have a bathing suit.

So swim in your underwear. Or swim naked if you want to.

What about the neighbors?

They can swim naked too. It doesn’t matter to me.

Kip smiled and I laughed. The first time in days.

All right, I said. I pulled off my 501s and took off my sweatshirt, but I left my Calvins on, and followed Kip into the lake.

We waded in to our waists, splashing water on ourselves, and then dove under. The cold water enveloped me. Like an ex-lover. The lake’s currents tingled every nerve as they flowed over and around me, and I through them. I started swimming quickly. Whether as a natural response to generate body heat or as a more primitive survival instinct I didn’t really know. But in a short while I felt warmer and slowed down a bit. I luxuriated in the feel of my body moving through the water and the water caressing my skin as I swam. Kip was swimming right next to me.

How far out is the sand bar? I asked.

About a quarter mile.

I rolled my eyes. Neither of us said anything more until we reached the sandbar, by which time I was breathing heavily.

You…do this…often? I asked, gasping for breath. The water was only waist deep, but we were both sitting in the water to keep from freezing in the soft breeze blowing in the cool morning air.

Every morning.

Even when the waves are big?

Up to four feet.

You’re crazy.

Maybe. But it’s invigorating. The cold water wakes me up and I start the day alert and full of energy.

Why don’t you just take a cold shower?

There’s no cardiovascular benefit in standing under a shower head, Kip explained. Besides, the view from out here is amazing!

I looked around. Kip was certainly right about that. The entire U-shaped bay was in view. The city of Petoskey was unmistakable eight miles to the east. To the north, the long mountain, that was Michigan, rose out of the water across the bay, towering over the city of Harbor Springs. To the west, Lake Michigan extended beyond the horizon. The setting moon marked the boundary where the water and sky converged. Without the moon, the boundary was hard to distinguish. And to the south, Kip’s house was visible through the cedar, pine, and birch trees. Ferns grew up the sandy hillside from the beach to the house, its entire northern wall composed exclusively of four-by-ten foot window panes set into the wall at six inch intervals. On the east side of the beach was a short dock and shed where Kip kept his Sunfish sailboat, and a path leading into a small cedar tree enclosure. On the west side of the beach a line of giant boulders marked the edge of Kip’s property. Just beyond the boulders the land rose abruptly twenty feet over the water and formed a small cliff. Rainbow Falls cascaded over the cliff’s edge and into a deep pool, separated from the lake by a semicircle of boulders. From the sandbar, a vivid double rainbow stretching across the eight-foot wide falls glowed brightly all across its multi-hued spectrum in the early morning sunlight.

Ready to swim back? Kip asked.

My breathing had returned to normal, but I was shivering in the cold water. It was definitely time to get moving. Okay, I said.

Again we dove into the water. Unlike the swim out to the sandbar, I began to struggle on the way back, fighting to make headway, as if the spirits residing in Lake Michigan didn’t want me to reach the land. I stopped and tried to put my feet down for a moment to catch my breath, but I went under and swallowed a mouthful of water. I started swimming again, Kip a few lengths ahead of me. I wanted to see how deep the water was so I held my breath and went under. Down I went but I couldn’t reach the bottom before I needed to come up for air.

Steeeven. A voice softly whispered in my mind.

Linda? I thought as I kicked for the surface.

Steeeven, don’t leave me.

I heard the voice again. I broke the water’s surface and looked all around. I felt something grab hold of my right foot. It pulled me under. I kicked violently and broke free. I surfaced again and screamed. Kip! Help! Kip! Kip!

Kip turned around and came racing towards me. I was thrashing my arms and fighting to stay above the surface.

Kip swam past me. From behind he reached under my left arm and across my chest and pulled me to him.

It’s okay, I’ve got you, he said calmly. You can relax now.

I held on to his arm tightly with both hands. There’s something down there! We’ve got to get out of here.

"That’s