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aboard. But the skiff tipped toward him, taking on water.

    “Willy, no!”
    But Willy wouldn’t let go.
    I pulled him away, but the skiff was half sunk. It was still floating, but all we could do now was hang on and wait for help.
    I couldn’t see Streak in the chop.
    Or Clarence.
    If I couldn’t see him, would he see us?

W illy and I hung on as the wind and the current took us farther out to sea.
    We were closing in on Flat Island, but it was so small we would miss it unless we could somehow break free from the current and change course. With a half-sunk boat that wecouldn’t even get into, that would be almost impossible without help.
    Flat Island was close enough to swim to. But did Willy have the strength to try?
    I turned back toward the beach. I saw Mom and Darci, other people, Willy’s parents, and two police cars.
    “Willy!” I shouted. “You doing okay?”
    He nodded.
    Then I remembered Streak!
    I kicked to get higher in the water.
“Streak!”
    She was close, bobbing in the chop, swimming toward us. She looked like a wet rat.

    Past Streak, I caught a glimpse of Clarence. His stroke looked strong.
    “Over here!”
I called.
    Streak finally made it.
    I got hold of her and wrestled her up. She scrabbled into the half-sunk skiff.
    Clarence swam hard the last few yards. “You two all right?”
    “Yeah.” I gulped a breath. “But Willy … almost drowned.”
    “I’m … so … tired,” Willy mumbled.
    Clarence looked into the skiff, then back at the beach. He waved to the people onshore, gave them a thumbs-up.
    “Listen,” he said. “We going put your friend inside with the dog, then we pull the boat to that small island. Can you do that? You still strong?”
    “Think so.”
    “We go.”
    Together, Clarence and I pushed Willy up into the skiff.
    Clarence got the oar that was in the boat. “Grab the other one! We pull.” With all the water in the skiff, we might as well have been trying to pull a container barge. But it was the only way.
    We turned on our backs, gripped the oar cables, and kicked toward Flat Island.

    Inch by inch.
    Straining, pulling.
    Muscles burning.
    We pulled into a small cove and dragged the boat up onto a coral beach. Streak ran up onto the island. It was flat, like its name, about five feet above the water.
    We helped Willy out of the skiff. His teeth were chattering.
    Clarence nodded toward a sheltered spot out of the wind. “Put him over there.”
    Willy sat with his knees up, his arms and head resting on them.
    “Stay with him,” Clarence said. “Try to warm him up. I get the water out of that boat.”
    He dragged the skiff higher up and tipped the water out.
    I rubbed Willy’s arms. His lips were blue. I wondered if the golden Buddha would say
Don’t worry, be happy
now. Prob’ly.

    Streak came back and leaned up against me, trembling.
    “You crazy dog. You swam out to save me, didn’t you?”
    She licked my face.
    Clarence came back to help me rub Willy warm.
    “Was brave, what you did,” Clarence said to me.
    I stared at Willy’s pale face, his blue lips. It wasn’t brave, it was terrifying. Willy could have drowned.
    “Very, very dangerous, this kind of water,” Clarence said, working on Willy’s legs. “The current, undertow, sharp stuff floating in the water. Hard to swim. Get tired fast. Easy to drown.” He lifted his chin toward Willy. “But you did um anyway.”
    “So did you.”
    Clarence put his hand on my head and gave me a little shove. “Good team, us.”

A rescue truck arrived at the beach, lights swirling. A guy jumped out, grabbed a red float, and headed down into the water. “Someone’s going to swim out to us,” I said.
    Clarence stood up and waved his arm back and forth. Then he held up a thumb. But the guy kept on swimming toward us.
    “Why you doing that?” I asked. “Can anyone see us?”
    “They got binoculars.”
    Clarence sat down, holding Willy against him. “How you doing, brah?” Willy nodded.
    Clarence