I know how to swim, and I’m usually pretty good at not panicking, but ice water pushing at my nose and mouth and turning me this way and that has me scrabbling for any kind of purchase. Something smooth and slick and a hundred times larger than my body brushes against me, shoving me out of the way as it slides past. I can’t see what it is, and I can’t go still in hopes that it won’t notice me. Can’t even make a sound.

The thing that could swallow me whole, that I can’t even open my eyes to see, moves on. I fight my way towards what feels like up, and my head breaks the surface at last. I raise one hand to clear my eyes, trying to get a look around me as they sting. There are cliffs in the distance. This is not the open sea, thank God. And I do know how to swim.

When my arms feel like they cannot possibly keep moving for one more stroke, the beach is there, all small, sharp stones. I lie gasping on them, the wind around me pulling at my clothes. It’s cold, but it’s not water. I push myself up to my knees, then my feet, which are bare, of course, my boots kicked off in the water long ago.

There are people in the distance, I can see. Here, someone must be better than no one. I push my hair out of my eyes and begin picking my way toward them.