Page 61 of The Rebound
“No.”
“Mm-hm.” But he drops it. “We’re going to drive to the village and get some supplies. Well, I say supplies. I mean beer.”
I look back to the water. “I think I’ll stay. I want to go in the ocean for a bit before it gets too cold.”
Rory makes a face. “Children pee in there.”
“You mean you pee in there. I’m going to rent a wetsuit and go paddleboarding. Come find me when you’re back.”
“You know they don’t actually clean those things,” he calls after me. “They just throw them into a vat of disinfectant and offer up a prayer.”
I ignore him and head to the little hut where I pay ten euro for an hour with a board and a wetsuit. It’s not exactly top-of-the-range material and I almost twist my arm trying to pull the zipper up. But eventually I manage it and make my way to the shore.
I used to love playing in the water. I spent my summers by the sea in the sun and the wind and the rain and whatever else the west coast of Ireland threw at us. It was always more fun in the rain. Rain meant bigger waves, more squealing, more frantic movements as I ran from the water to the car where my dad would hold out a towel to wrap me in and not even bother to rub me dry, just bundle me into the back seat before my hands turned blue. Swimming in the sea as an adult meant brief vacation days with Tyler or expensive weeks away with Jess. It meant fine white sand and crystal blue water and floating around in a bikini, not whatever survival gear it is Louise has given me.
Picking up my steps, I grab a spare bodyboard from a pile by the edge, catching Luke’s eye as I pass. He holds up a hand in greeting before immediately getting distracted by two kids screaming at each other. It’s the most interaction we’ve had in days.
I enter the water, keeping within eyesight of the lifeguards. Everyone knows the currents could whip you up strong over here and though there’s thankfully been no accidents in my lifetime, Mam had plenty of horror stories of people swept away. I’m not sure any of them were true, probably just tales to scare off any intention of straying too far but they still stick with me, so I paddle out only a few meters and practice standing on the board as I wait for the waves to come in.
It’s nothing compared to the surfing in America or even down the coast here, where the white foamy waves draw people from around the world. This is gentle kids’ stuff but it’s also all I can manage for a few minutes before my body gets predictably cold and my muscles grow tired. Barely fifteen minutes in I start to get winded and I soon give up, heading back to the beach as literal children move smoothly and skillfully around me.
I’m almost at the sand when it happens. I hop off the board, tugging it behind me as the water reaches my knees but two steps in and I feel it, a sharp pain in my foot, like someone poked me with a branding iron.
I stop where I stand as the stinging grows in intensity, gazing into the water for the offending piece of trash or rock beneath me. But I don’t see either. Instead, to my left I spy a few slithering blobs floating away.
A jellyfish sting. A goddamn jellyfish sting.
The burning sensation doesn’t fade, so I hobble back to the beach where I sit with a thud, stretching out my leg to see a small red rash already forming on the top of my foot.
“You need to pee on it.”
“What?” I glance up to see a boy standing beside me, no more than six or seven.
“You need to pee on it,” he says. “Mum told me.”
“Great.”
“Do you want me to pee—”
“No,” I say sharply.
The kid only shrugs and runs off. By now, the beach is starting to empty, cars leaving en masse as the summer camp winds up, but I see Rory walking along the shoreline, clearly looking for me.
I yell his name and he waves, jogging over to my deathbed.
“What happened to you?” he asks. “Shark bite?”
“Jellyfish.”
The smile drops from his face. “Seriously? Are you okay?”
“I can handle it. It’s just sore.”
“Do you want me to—”
“If you suggest peeing on it, Rory, I swear to God I’ll—”
“Seawater will help.”
