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life had retreated into some part of his brain to
cling there as limpets cling to a rock in a storm.

    Not
long now. I'm going over the edge. I'll be home soon, Mom ...

    Leave
a light on in the porch 'cos I'm on my way. ...

    There
were people.

    They
stood on the sea-bed looking up at him. Their white faces seemed kind
of mournful. Like they wanted him to stay. There were a good nine or
ten. All standing in a tight cluster. As if posing in one of those
fancy pop posters-all standing tight together looking up. Then they
reached up their hands toward him.

    They
wanted him to stay. Join them there.

    Be
one of the people standing ankle-deep in the kelp meadow, all
rippling brown, brown, brown, standing watching the passing keels of
ships go high above their heads.

    Were
the people nice or nasty?

    Kind
or mean?

    Living
or dead?

    He
stared at the big faces with their wide, surprised eyes.

    He
couldn't tell. The faces were growing faint. The arms began to move.
But they were all blurry. You could not tell them from the fronds of
seaweed that drifted to and fro.

    Time
to sleep. So tired. He didn't need to breathe anymore.

    His
brother John was playing with his plane, the model of the Flying
Fortress bomber Uncle Walt had built. He was playing too near Mark's
bed. Mark told him not to-it was too close.

    Hell.
The plane hit him on the forehead. That hurt, you ...

    It
happened again.

    Spluttering,
Mark opened his eyes. He was in the middle of a great wash of white
foam. With an effort he remembered where he was. In the middle of the
sea.

    Jesus.

    Why
wasn't he dead yet?

    End
it, for Christsakes, end this torture ...

    The
sea battered him. It tugged and pulled and rolled him over and over.

    He
went under.

    This
time there was no sense of falling. His head buffeted sharply against
something. He thrust his hand out, clutching at it. Shingle. Sand. It
felt like ...

    Beach.

    A
wave hit again and shoved him roughly across a bank of sand.

    He
tried to stand but once more he was out of his depth.

    Wearily,
arms and legs feeling as if they were encircled with iron bands, he
tried to swim.

    In
front of him something rose out of the water. A dark silhouette
against the silver moonlit clouds.

    It
was massive. An enormous square block of darkness.

    A
ship so near to shore?

    It
looked like one but it had to be enormous. And there were no
navigation lights.

    He
tried to swim toward it but found himself slipping under water.

    "We
sail our vessels on the sea, we are under power, we steer a
deliberate course. But, you know, every so often the sea takes
control. And when it does, don't fight it. Go with it. Surrender
yourself to its will. Because if you don't, it will destroy you."

    He
remembered the Skipper's words. He made a conscious decision to leave
himself to the mercy of the sea. If it wanted him, so be it.

    The
surf pushed and pulled him. All he could do was keep his head above
water at least part of the time.

    Bitingly
cold brine repeatedly flooded his throat or drove into his nostrils.

    Then
he hit the shere.

    This
time as each wave receded it left him clear of the water-at least
briefly before the next one. Then another roll of surf came roaring
up the sand and carried him, this time fairly gently further up the
beach.

    The
water slid back, sucking sand and shingle from beneath his hands.

    He
wasn't going to drown after all.

    Mark
stayed there on his hands and knees, wearily shaking his head.

    "Safe."

    The
word oozed from his lips like something half solid.

    "Safe."

    The
tide began to retreat. The next wave only licked the soles of his
bare feet.

    Unable
to walk, he moved up the beach on his hands and knees until clear of
the surf, his hands crunching on sand and pebbles.

    At
last he stopped and looked back. The moonlight revealed long lines of
surf rolling in with a low continuous roar.

    The
wind was dropping. But he was bitterly cold.

    Rising
unsteadily to his feet, he walked to and fro, searching