As I pull out of the driveway, I see P-Nut’s furry face watching me from the window. When I return, my little Shih Tzu is still at the window.
I travel quite a bit with my job. I’m now in Wimberley, TX and P-Nut is with me here. Unfortunately, I can’t take her to my appointments during the day and it’s too hot for her to wait in the car. So I tell her, “Stay in the air conditioning, P-Nut, and I’ll be back soon.”
I hope her entire day isn’t spent waiting for me to return and for that reason, I shouldn’t have watched “Hachi: A Dog’s Tale. It’s a Hallmark movie about Hachi, an Akita , a loyal companion to a professor, played by Richard Gere.
The professor finds an Akita puppy at a train station. He tries to locate the dog’s owner, but no one takes Hachi. So the professor brings him home to live with his family.
As Hachi grows up, he follows the professor to the train station every day and waits at the station for him to return in the evening. One day the professor has a heart attack and dies while teaching class.
Hachi waits and waits at the train station for his master to return. In fact, Hachi waits for years and years. Sadly, the dog dies waiting for his master to get off the train.
At the end of the movie, there’s a script telling us this is a true story about Hachiko, an Akita, who continued to return to the train station in the Shibuya ward of Tokyo where his master traveled to and from his job. An actual statue of Hachiko was erected at the station to celebrate his extreme loyalty.
Needless to say, I cried and felt sad for days. I wondered what P-Nut would do if anything happened to me, and then I remembered what she did the time my neighbor Joanne came to my door. “I want to show you the apple pie I made,” Joanne said. “Do you have a minute to walk with me to my house?”
I told P-Nut I’d be right back. Then I walked down the road with my neighbor. After I left, P-Nut ran upstairs to my husband. She barked and barked. He thought something horrible had happened. I didn’t tell him I was leaving, because I planned to return soon.
Larry followed the barking P-Nut to the front door. When he opened the door, P-Nut dashed out of sight. He had no idea that she was going to my neighbor’s house, where she ran up the stairs and pushed the door open.
My neighbor Joanne and I were shocked to see P-Nut in all of her doggy glory. Meanwhile, an upset Larry drove throughout the neighborhood looking for the wayward P-Nut.
When P-Nut and I got back home, Larry wasn’t there, but he eventually called my cell phone. “Sandy where are you?”
“I’m home,” I said.
“I can’t find P-Nut anywhere,” he said.
“She right here with me.”
“Oh, God, I thought we’d lost her.”
Later, he wondered why P-Nut has such separation anxiety.
I don’t know. Is it extreme loyalty? Is she like other dogs superior to most humans in that regard? I think so and I also think they deserve our love, kindness and loyalty in return, don’t you agree?
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
New Interview
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Mother
What can I say about a mother who paraded around Geneva, Alabama in colorful clothes, big hats, big jewelry, gossips be damned?
What can I say about a mother whose many bracelets clanged as she played the piano at the Baptist church and sang louder than the choir?
What can I say about a mother who encouraged us to sing while she accompanied us on the piano, as if we were giving a grand performance for Liberace?
What can I say about a mother who took me and my sister out of school in the middle of the year, and drove from Alabama to New Mexico to see the Caverns? And during the summer, she stuck us in camp while she studied art.
What can I say about this oldest daughter of Norwegian immigrants who married a man—our daddy—because he promised to buy her a piano and teach her to drive? Or so she claimed. After Daddy died, she chose not to marry again.
What can I say about a mother who loved water and painted beautiful pictures of water, but never learned to swim? Yet, she encouraged us to become good swimmers.
What can I say about her? A mother who raised two daughters alone while preaching: “Cleanliness is next to Godliness. A stitch in time saves nine. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a woman healthy, wealthy and wise. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. And you won’t like most of what you do every day, but if you do one thing you like, you should be happy.”
What can I say about a mother who drove us to New York City to see “My Fair Lady” on Broadway, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, and in the middle of the night, when we arrived at the Brooklyn Bridge, said, “Wake up, girls, New York City”?
What can I say about such a woman?
Words fail me, because it isn’t easy to honor a mother who chronicled our lives in movies?
Yes, she filmed us, as if we were stars in a reality show, long before it became popular. Thank God, she took the time to do that, because Alice Kay and I were able to salvage some of that film.
When Mother suffered the first of many strokes and was in a coma, I was certain the end had come. But then, she opened her eyes and said, “I’m so proud of you.”
Unfortunately, Mother is no longer on this earth, but in looking back, I know she did her best in raising me, and when she said she was proud of me, her words meant more than my words can say.
Now I have two grown daughters and a granddaughter and I hope they know how proud I am of them.
What can I say about a mother whose many bracelets clanged as she played the piano at the Baptist church and sang louder than the choir?
What can I say about a mother who encouraged us to sing while she accompanied us on the piano, as if we were giving a grand performance for Liberace?
What can I say about a mother who took me and my sister out of school in the middle of the year, and drove from Alabama to New Mexico to see the Caverns? And during the summer, she stuck us in camp while she studied art.
What can I say about this oldest daughter of Norwegian immigrants who married a man—our daddy—because he promised to buy her a piano and teach her to drive? Or so she claimed. After Daddy died, she chose not to marry again.
What can I say about a mother who loved water and painted beautiful pictures of water, but never learned to swim? Yet, she encouraged us to become good swimmers.
What can I say about her? A mother who raised two daughters alone while preaching: “Cleanliness is next to Godliness. A stitch in time saves nine. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a woman healthy, wealthy and wise. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. And you won’t like most of what you do every day, but if you do one thing you like, you should be happy.”
What can I say about a mother who drove us to New York City to see “My Fair Lady” on Broadway, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, and in the middle of the night, when we arrived at the Brooklyn Bridge, said, “Wake up, girls, New York City”?
What can I say about such a woman?
Words fail me, because it isn’t easy to honor a mother who chronicled our lives in movies?
Yes, she filmed us, as if we were stars in a reality show, long before it became popular. Thank God, she took the time to do that, because Alice Kay and I were able to salvage some of that film.
When Mother suffered the first of many strokes and was in a coma, I was certain the end had come. But then, she opened her eyes and said, “I’m so proud of you.”
Unfortunately, Mother is no longer on this earth, but in looking back, I know she did her best in raising me, and when she said she was proud of me, her words meant more than my words can say.
Now I have two grown daughters and a granddaughter and I hope they know how proud I am of them.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Hurricane House Cover
Hurricane House is now available from Treble Heart Books and book stores. I'm excited.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Daddy
Every father’s day I suffer from regrets—regrets because my father died when I was a child—regrets because I wish I’d known him better and more regrets because I certainly could have used his strong guidance when I was growing up.
My father died of a heart attack when I was 7-years-old and with every passing year my memories of him become more precious. I only wish I had more of those memories.
I remember how I used to pester Daddy on those rare afternoons when he’d come home early from work. I’d snuggle up to him and chatter endlessly, even though Mama told me, “Don’t bother your daddy. He’s trying to rest.”
On those rare afternoons, Daddy seemed to be listening to whatever nonsense I was spouting as he smoked his unfiltered Camel cigarettes. I must confess, though, I didn’t always listen to him, like the day he brought an old car home from his hardware store.
One of the doors—on the passenger’s side—was missing. Unaware of the danger, I begged Daddy to let me ride along in this mysterious old car.
“Okay, but you have to stay away from the open door,” Daddy cautioned.
I hopped in the car beside him, but soon managed to wiggle away and fall out as we rode up the hill in front of our house. I landed at the bottom of the hill, tousled and breathless.
When I glanced up, I saw Daddy, staring down at me. He didn’t scold. Instead, he said, “Are you all right?”
I felt half dead, but I wanted to impress Daddy by being tough. So I brushed myself off and answered, “Yes.”
“Okay, come on. Get in the car and let’s go,” he said.
Occasionally, Daddy would take us to a movie, but mostly he worked. He wanted to provide his family with the finer things in life: a huge brick home, a fishing pond, a swimming pool, tennis courts and our own merry-go-round. But I would have gladly traded it all for a few more years of sharing moments with him.
I’ve told my daughters their granddaddy was a great guy, but I wish they could have discovered his greatness on their own. I’ve told them of the time when I was a teenager, a strange man was wandering around our house. I called the police because Mother wasn’t home and I was afraid.
When the police questioned the man, he said he used to work for Daddy many years ago: “Whenever I needed work, Mr. Ira would always give me some.”
I’ve shared this story with my daughters because I wanted them to know their grandfather was a good man. I wanted them to know he tried to help others. I wanted them to know he was generous in giving of his time and money.
I only wish he’d had more time for me. And on Father’s Day I am again reminded of how much I miss him.
My father died of a heart attack when I was 7-years-old and with every passing year my memories of him become more precious. I only wish I had more of those memories.
I remember how I used to pester Daddy on those rare afternoons when he’d come home early from work. I’d snuggle up to him and chatter endlessly, even though Mama told me, “Don’t bother your daddy. He’s trying to rest.”
On those rare afternoons, Daddy seemed to be listening to whatever nonsense I was spouting as he smoked his unfiltered Camel cigarettes. I must confess, though, I didn’t always listen to him, like the day he brought an old car home from his hardware store.
One of the doors—on the passenger’s side—was missing. Unaware of the danger, I begged Daddy to let me ride along in this mysterious old car.
“Okay, but you have to stay away from the open door,” Daddy cautioned.
I hopped in the car beside him, but soon managed to wiggle away and fall out as we rode up the hill in front of our house. I landed at the bottom of the hill, tousled and breathless.
When I glanced up, I saw Daddy, staring down at me. He didn’t scold. Instead, he said, “Are you all right?”
I felt half dead, but I wanted to impress Daddy by being tough. So I brushed myself off and answered, “Yes.”
“Okay, come on. Get in the car and let’s go,” he said.
Occasionally, Daddy would take us to a movie, but mostly he worked. He wanted to provide his family with the finer things in life: a huge brick home, a fishing pond, a swimming pool, tennis courts and our own merry-go-round. But I would have gladly traded it all for a few more years of sharing moments with him.
I’ve told my daughters their granddaddy was a great guy, but I wish they could have discovered his greatness on their own. I’ve told them of the time when I was a teenager, a strange man was wandering around our house. I called the police because Mother wasn’t home and I was afraid.
When the police questioned the man, he said he used to work for Daddy many years ago: “Whenever I needed work, Mr. Ira would always give me some.”
I’ve shared this story with my daughters because I wanted them to know their grandfather was a good man. I wanted them to know he tried to help others. I wanted them to know he was generous in giving of his time and money.
I only wish he’d had more time for me. And on Father’s Day I am again reminded of how much I miss him.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Hurricane House chapter one
Paradise Isle
Dolphin, Florida
July 4
One
My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.
I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door. And checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama. Turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.
After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.
This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. “Make peace with the past,” Kari Ann advised. “Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’”
“Oh please, I was a kid when I sang that.” I told her.
“I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.”
I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.
My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, “No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.”
In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. “The luckiest fishing village in the world,” according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.
Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.
On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.
For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: “Live in the moment and be thankful.”
I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.
I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.
Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.
When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.
I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me.
To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.
During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.
When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal.
The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.
I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax. `
When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.
In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.
I waved my hands above my head and yelled, “Help.” I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.
When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.
When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh my God. Did a shark do this?
A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, “Help, help,” as I pulled the body toward the jetties.
I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave, tossing me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.
Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.
The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.
I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.
I punched in 911. A woman answered, “What’s your emergency?”
“I’ve found a…dead body…in the …near the jetties,” I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.
You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes.
“Calm down,” the 911 lady said. “What’s your name and location?”
My voice quivered, “My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.”
“You said you found a body?”
“Yes, a woman.”
“And she’s dead?” the operator asked.
“Yes, dead,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” the operator said, her voice low and soothing.
“No, no, don’t, I’m okay,” I said, though I felt anything but. “I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.”
After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.
Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.
After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, “Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida.” I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. “Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Tara had said and sipped her drink.
“Is that necklace something the winner gets?”
Tara chuckled and said. “No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.”
I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.
What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.
Dolphin, Florida
July 4
One
My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house. It felt like an anxiety attack, cause uncertain. I realize now the warning was a premonition of death, but you know what they say about hindsight.
I took deep breaths of the warm, salty air and tried to relax, then slammed the door. And checked to make sure it was locked. The face on the full moon reminded me of the last time Adam and I watched the fireworks here. In our ten years together, we never missed the fireworks on Paradise Isle. We’d drive down from Gerry, Alabama. Turn off our cell phones and enjoy a few precious days without interruptions.
After Adam was killed in the line of duty, my body ached with grief, and I didn’t have the stamina to confront my memories in the most romantic place on earth. To escape, I buried myself in work. Luckily, my assignments as a catastrophe investigator sent me far away from Paradise Isle, Florida.
This year I took the advice of my sister, who happens to be a psychiatrist. “Make peace with the past,” Kari Ann advised. “Focus on the good stuff and try to be positive, like when you were little Miss Sunshine, singing ‘open up your heart and let the sunshine in.’”
“Oh please, I was a kid when I sang that.” I told her.
“I know. I’m just saying you need to nurture the little girl inside, and with time, you’ll get through this grieving process, Maeva. But for now, try to live in the moment. Be thankful, not negative.”
I wanted to follow my sister’s advice. I really did, but while looking at that moon, bathing the beach in a silver halo, reality hit me. I was alone, drowning in the past, with too many raw memories like the first time Adam and I made love.
My family and I have vacationed on Paradise Isle in Dolphin, Florida since I was knee high. Mom used to say, “No need to lock the doors. Paradise Isle is the safest place on earth.”
In aerial photographs, Paradise Isle looks like a white thumb, surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, Dolphin Harbor and the boat pass. “The luckiest fishing village in the world,” according to the Chamber of Commerce sign.
Yet, my heart hammered, as if cautioning me. I glanced all around. Unit Three next door had the lights on. The author Sean Redmond owns that townhouse. I’ve read one of his books, a scary murder mystery.
On the street in front of our townhouses, I saw two teenagers talking and laughing with a man and woman who were probably their parents. They headed up Blue Heron Way toward the boat pass.
For reinforcement, I repeated Kari Ann’s advice: “Live in the moment and be thankful.”
I felt thankful for the afternoon showers, cutting the ninety-degree heat, but not thankful for the swarm of tourists, setting off their own firecrackers. Crowds make me nervous, especially noisy crowds.
I’d never seen this many boats anchored along the shore, honking like mad geese, impatient for the first layers of electric dandelions and long-legged spiders on steroids to explode in the sky. The honking reached a crescendo when the fireworks began.
Rather than watch them, I took off running down the wet, slanted shoreline. The flashes of light and rat-a-tat-tat of the fireworks followed me, orchestrating my run. I hadn’t jogged in months. Soon my toes and calves started cramping. To endure, I gritted my teeth and panted, as if I were giving birth. Maybe the pain in my body will obliterate the pain in my heart.
When I reached my mile marker, I plopped down in one of the wooden loungers, owned by Bobby’s Beach Service and found myself staring at the old Dolphin Mansion, three hundred feet away. Sooty black mold covered the exterior. Beach erosion threatened to topple the seven-foot-tall wall encircling it. Why hasn’t someone restored this landmark? The artist who painted the dolphins, for which the town was named, had lived and died in there.
I saw a light flash from one of the porthole windows. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at the building again. The light I thought I’d seen had disappeared, but the eerie feeling stayed with me.
To escape the weirdness, I jumped from the lounge chair and walked out on the cluster of boulders called jetties that protected Dolphin’s boat pass from the Gulf’s relentless attempt to clog it with sand.
During my walk, waves crashed against the jetties and my feet slipped a few times. Luckily, I caught myself before I fell.
When I reached the end, I sat on a chair-shaped boulder and dangled my feet in the water. I felt as though I could reach out and touch the fireworks, which were fired from the Dolphin Bridge directly in front of me. I could watch them in the air, see their reflection in the Gulf, and hear the syncopated beat of the music from several boats anchored in the canal.
The waves slapped my back, drenching me, and for the first time in a long while, I began to relax. In fact, I relaxed so completely I let my guard down and didn’t anticipate the giant breaker that slammed dunked me into the gulf. A swift current carried me away.
I gulped a mouthful of salt water as the undertow pulled me down, sucking like a vacuum. At first, I battled the coursing water, making wide circles with my arms and kicking my legs fiercely. Then I remembered what I’d learned in a lifeguard class. Don’t fight the undertow. Let it take you to the bottom. So I commanded my body to relax. `
When my toes touched the floor of the gulf, I began to swim parallel to where I thought the shoreline might be, and search for a weak spot in the undertow. My lungs burned and expanded like a balloon about to pop. My fingers touched something black and slimy. I froze, thinking shark.
In my panic, I collided with a sand bar and crawled crablike on top of it. I took several deep breaths and looked around for someone to help me. By then, my muscles trembled from exhaustion, and I didn’t think I had the strength to swim back to the jetties. The undertow had carried me to the gulf’s side. The boats and the crowd watching the fireworks were at least a football field away on the harbor side. The jetties separated the two and they were at least three hundred feet away.
I waved my hands above my head and yelled, “Help.” I could feel the shifting of the sand bar, soon to wash away.
When no one answered my cry for help, I jumped from the sand bar and swam back toward the jetties. Halfway there, my fatigued muscles demanded rest. So I floated on my back for a while until I bumped into an object in the water.
When I flipped over to see what I’d collided with, I screamed. It was the unthinkable: a woman’s nude body. I gagged and swam doggie-style, backwards and forwards, studying the corpse. I noticed she’d lost one of her feet. Oh my God. Did a shark do this?
A boat, fifty feet away with a boom box blasting I’m Proud to be an American, cruised nearby. I yelled, “Help, help,” as I pulled the body toward the jetties.
I watched the boat, hoping for a response, but it sped past, ignoring me, but sending a wave, tossing me backwards. I lost my grip on the body and imagined the remains of this poor woman getting caught up in the undertow, never to resurface again.
Though exhausted, I swam after the body. When I reached out to grab it, a cruel wave pushed it away. Eventually, the tide changed and I was able to recapture the corpse. This time, I positioned my body on top of the dead woman as if she were a float. Thankfully and finally, the waves seemed to be working in our favor, pushing us toward the jetties.
The corpse and I soon collided with the rocks and I felt like kissing the boulders, though I didn’t think I had the energy to pull myself up and get out of the water. I gripped a gigantic rock, put my feet in between two of them and was finally able to jump up. Then I got on my stomach and tried to reach the corpse, but my arms weren’t long enough to gain leverage. Thankfully, the waves were pushing the body against the boulders, not taking her away.
I unzipped my waist pouch to withdraw my cell phone. The pouch was waterproof, but after my near drowning, I didn’t expect the cell to work.
I punched in 911. A woman answered, “What’s your emergency?”
“I’ve found a…dead body…in the …near the jetties,” I stuttered and shut my eyes, fighting my panic.
You’d think from the way I acted I’d never seen a dead body, but I’ve seen several as a catastrophe insurance investigator, or CAT, as we are called. I’ve dealt with victims of floods, tornadoes, hurricanes.
“Calm down,” the 911 lady said. “What’s your name and location?”
My voice quivered, “My name is Maeva Larson. I’m in Dolphin on Paradise Isle at the end of the jetties, near where they’re exploding the fireworks. I’m wearing white shorts and a white top. I’m five-one, have short red hair, and I’m the only one out here on the jetties.”
“You said you found a body?”
“Yes, a woman.”
“And she’s dead?” the operator asked.
“Yes, dead,” I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll stay on the phone with you,” the operator said, her voice low and soothing.
“No, no, don’t, I’m okay,” I said, though I felt anything but. “I just need someone out here now. Hurry, please.”
After I closed my cell phone, I studied the dead woman. Her gold necklace glinted in the moonlight. The necklace had a pendant in the shape of a crown and looked familiar. Too familiar, like the one Tara Baxter had worn the afternoon Geneva VanSant invited me over for wine and finger sandwiches.
Tara had won the Miss Florida contest, and Geneva had received an award for an article about a female hitchhiker. The party was to celebrate both events.
After the get-acquainted hellos, I noticed the crown necklace, “Lovely. Appropriate for your title as Miss Florida.” I remember lifting my glass of red wine to Tara in a toast. “Here’s hoping you become the next Miss America.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Tara had said and sipped her drink.
“Is that necklace something the winner gets?”
Tara chuckled and said. “No, Maeva, my mother had it designed for me.”
I didn’t want to believe this dead body was Tara, but I saw no other alternative. On her right hand was a heart-shaped pinky ring. I was certain Tara had worn a similar ring.
What was taking the responders so long? I wondered. The fireworks had ended. The crowd on the beach was moving on. The waves kept crashing the jetties, smacking Tara’s body into the rocks. As I watched her, I began to sob like a frightened child. Never had I felt so alone and powerless.
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