Single Dad Seeks Juliet

I came into the water to save the life of a stranger, but chances are looking a little too likely that I’m going to drown before I even find the guy.JakeMorning swim-cardio completed, I move on to some of my lung-capacity exercises, slowly increasing the time I spend underwater one fifteen-second increment at a time.

I do it all for fun now, but I used to need the ability to ensure I came home alive. Something about that stuck with me, I guess, because I can’t start my mornings without swimming in the ocean. Clearly, I’d never be able to move away from the beach.

Timing the waves, I go under again, this time for a full minute, resting on the sandy bottom and taking in everything around me.

Thankfully, the water is pretty clear here, and after years of training, the salt water barely even burns my eyes.

A school of fish swims by, unaffected by my presence. The sound of the ocean’s churn is quiet, but even from the floor below, you can feel the power of each wave.

Something about it recharges me with the energy I need to face the day.

My underwater watch blinks, signaling I’m at the end of my interval, and I stand up and push off the bottom before swimming for the surface.

I breach the barrier of the water and take a deep, satisfying pull of air to fill my lungs once again. I feel invigorated and ready to go again, but I do my due diligence and give myself and my lungs the recovery time I know they need by floating on my back in the hollow of the swells.

Eventually, my timer goes off and I repeat it all again, over and over until I can’t take it anymore.

I’ve just crested the water after my two-minute dive drill when I unexpectedly see the head of a woman disappear under the barrel of a wave. I’m always out here alone—I make a point of it by being here so early. But something feels off about her presence, and I’m immediately on alert.

I scan the surface, waiting for her to reappear. It takes much longer than I’m comfortable with, and when I finally catch sight of her, it’s painfully obvious that my comfort level is the least of our worries. Her arms flail helplessly as she fights for purchase on the water’s top, and when that doesn’t work, she disappears to the depths of yet another wave.

Son of a bitch. She’s struggling.

In my prime as a Navy SEAL, I was able to hold my breath for more than three minutes at a time, but as I’ve aged, my ability has sloped off. Still, I make it a habit to train every morning—to maintain both my lung capacity and real-world training so that I can still stay underwater longer than any average person.

I jump into action, swimming in the direction I last saw her and waiting for the eddy from the wave to recede. I go under quickly, opening my eyes to search for her. She’s at the bottom, rolling around and trying to make sense of her body. Her clothing is baggy and soaked, and it’s making it even harder for her to find the surface.

Did she dive in with her damn clothes on?

I swoop down swiftly, and with practiced ease, slide an arm under her armpit, across the wall of her chest, and secure my hand under the other armpit. And then I swim for the shore.

I know she’s likely close to the end of her air supply, but we’ll make it to shallow water much faster if we swim below the waves. The surf is rolling today, and it’s probably why she got into trouble in the first place.

Waist-deep water comes quickly, and I switch my grip on her upper body, shifting her into my arms to carry her behind the head and the knees. I run to dry ground, settling her body softly into the sand as she sputters for air while her throat works to rid itself of ocean water.

I push wet strands of her dark hair away from her face and look her over, but all in all, she seems pretty lucky. No signs of severe oxygen loss, and her pupils are reactive.

“Are you okay?” I ask when she stops coughing. The sound of my voice forces her to focus on me for the first time as I search her crystal-like eyes. They’re the color of jade.

“You’re alive!” she responds strangely.

My eyebrows come together as I assess her further. She’s in a black business suit. It hangs on her body, but I can’t tell if it’s a tomboyish structure to the suit or the weight of the water that’s the cause. What it isn’t, though, is a swimsuit or wet suit or appropriate apparel of any kind for the ocean.