The Water Was Fine

Shira had been at the beach for eleven minutes when Sumi announced that she was healing.

“I can see it happening,” Sumi said.

Shira lowered her sunglasses. “What?”

“Healing.”

“From what?”

Sumi gestured broadly at her.

They were standing outside a small rental cottage two blocks from the water. Sumi had already changed into shorts and a blue camisole and was carrying a canvas bag containing sunscreen, three oranges, a paperback she would not open, two bottles of water, and enough food to survive a minor maritime disaster.

Freya had gone back inside because she had forgotten her running watch.

Shira regarded Sumi for several seconds.

“I’m going home.”

“You can’t. Freya has the car keys.”

“I’ll walk.”

“It’s four hours.”

“I have music.”

This was true. An old silver iPod Classic was clipped inside Shira’s bag, its scratched back polished smooth in places from years of use.

Sumi brightened. “Perfect! A healing walk.”

Shira put her sunglasses back on.

Freya came out of the cottage already wearing her watch.

“I found a seven-kilometer loop for tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Of course you did,” said Shira.

“It follows the coast.”

“That almost makes it sound recreational.”

“It is recreational.”

“You timed yourself brushing your teeth yesterday.”

“That was an experiment.”

Sumi took Shira by the wrist. “Come on. Ocean.”

They started toward the beach.

Shira had agreed to this trip six weeks earlier, at dinner, under conditions she now regarded as legally questionable. Sumi had made dumplings with roasted mushrooms, scallions, and something involving browned butter that neither Shira nor Freya had expected to work. It had been astonishing. Freya had told her she could sell them for eighteen dollars a plate. Sumi had looked horrified.

“That’s so much for dumplings.”

“You could sell them for twenty-four.”

“Freya.”

“What?”

“Stop turning dinner into private equity.”

Then Sumi had mentioned the beach.

By dessert, Shira had agreed to three nights.

She still did not understand how.

The beach itself was bright in the aggressive way that beaches tended to be. Too much sky. Too much reflected sunlight. Too many cheerful people carrying inflatable objects.

Shira wore black linen trousers over her swimsuit bottom and a loose black shirt over the top.

Sumi glanced at her.

“You know,” she said carefully, “you could take the shirt off.”

“I know.”

“You look really good in the bikini.”

Shira stopped walking.

Sumi closed her eyes.

“Sorry.”

Freya kept going for three steps, realized she was alone, and turned around.

“What happened?”

“Sumi committed a crime.”

“I complimented her.”

“I asked you not to.”

“You asked me not to make a big deal out of it.”

“That was a big deal.”

Freya looked at Sumi. “Just leave it.”

“I am leaving it.”

Shira resumed walking.

The bikini had been her own idea, which somehow made the entire situation worse.

She had bought it online three months ago after staring at it for nearly forty minutes. Black, naturally. Simple. No patterns, no tiny ornamental rings, no straps arranged according to principles of non-Euclidean geometry.

When it arrived, she tried it on in her bedroom, looked at herself in the mirror, and thought:

That’s actually fine.

Then she imagined being seen by another human being and folded immediately like a lawn chair.

She had nevertheless packed it.

Freya had said nothing when Shira emerged from the cottage wearing it beneath the shirt.

This was one reason Shira had known Freya for fifteen years.

Sumi had gasped.

This was one reason Shira occasionally considered murdering Sumi despite loving her dearly.

They reached the boardwalk shortly before ten.

Sumi found a stall selling iced coffee.

Freya found the rowing event.

Shira noticed the change in Freya’s face before Freya said anything.

“No.”

Freya pointed.

“No.”

“You haven’t even looked.”

“I looked at you.”

A banner stretched between two poles near the harbor.

COASTAL ROWING OPEN DAY

TRY IT YOURSELF

BEGINNERS WELCOME

Freya was already reading the smaller text.

“Short supervised course,” she said. “Instruction provided. Teams of three.”

“No.”

Sumi appeared beside them holding three coffees.

“We’re rowing?”

“No.”

“We’re rowing!”

“No.”

Freya took her coffee. “It’s broad recreational boats. Sheltered water.”

“I don’t care if it’s in a bathtub.”

Sumi handed Shira her drink. “It could be fun.”

“You think customs inspections are fun.”

“You get to see what people packed.”

“That is not the point of customs.”

Freya was still studying the sign.

“They’re stable,” she said.

“I’m thrilled.”

“You might like it.”

“I might like appendicitis.”

Freya finally looked at her.

“Okay.”

Shira paused.

That was irritating.

She had been prepared to repel an offensive.

Freya took a sip of coffee.

“We’ll do something else.”

Sumi nodded. “We can rent bicycles.”

“No.”

“Paddleboards?”

“No.”

“Parasailing?”

Shira looked toward the rowing boats.

They were long but broader than the racing shells she had seen on television. A group was gliding away from the dock toward a quieter stretch of blue water beyond the harbor. From here, the people looked tiny.

No phones.

No traffic.

No speakers playing dance music.

No strangers brushing past her.

Just water.

“How long does it take?” she asked.

Freya kept her expression carefully neutral.

“About an hour, including instruction.”

Shira hated her.

“Fine.”

Sumi screamed.

“Do that again and I’m withdrawing.”

Sumi pressed both hands over her mouth.

---

The instructor was a gray-haired woman named Elena who had the calm physical confidence of someone who had spent several decades watching beginners make preventable mistakes.

She showed them how to hold the oars.

She explained the sliding seats.

She demonstrated the basic sequence.

“Legs, body, arms,” she said. “Then arms, body, legs on the recovery.”

Sumi nodded solemnly.

Five minutes later she did arms, legs, body, arms again, then asked why the boat was turning.

“You’re rowing harder on the left,” Freya said.

“I’m left-handed.”

“The boat doesn’t care.”

“That seems unfair.”

Shira sat behind them, trying not to laugh.

Freya looked over her shoulder.

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

“You can’t prove it.”

Sumi twisted around. “She totally was!”

“Face forward.”

“You’re having fun!”

“Sumi, if you turn around again, I will personally return you to shore.”

Elena steadied their boat from the dock.

“Shira, your stroke is good.”

Shira blinked.

Freya turned halfway around.

“Don’t,” Shira said.

Freya turned back.

They pushed off.

At first Shira hated everything.

The seat moved when she did not expect it to. Her oar blade struck the water at a strange angle. Spray hit her shin. Sumi apologized to the Atlantic Ocean after catching a crab.

Then something aligned.

Legs.

Body.

Arms.

Arms.

Body.

Legs.

The boat moved.

There was a faint mechanical sound from the seat beneath her, the dip of the oar, the pressure of water against the blade.

Again.

And again.

The boardwalk receded behind them.

The voices blurred.

The shore became something seen rather than inhabited.

Shira felt the rhythm settle into her body.

It reminded her, faintly, of listening to an album from beginning to end. Not shuffling. Not skipping. Letting one thing lead into another because that was how it had been made.

Freya called the timing softly.

“Ready. Catch.”

Their oars entered together.

For several minutes, nobody spoke.

Then Sumi said, “This is incredible!”

Their rhythm collapsed instantly.

Freya sighed.

Shira laughed.

It escaped before she could stop it.

Sumi whipped her head around.

“I HEARD THAT.”

“Row.”

“You laughed!”

“Row the boat, Sumi.”

“You’re having a beautiful experience!”

“Freya, control her.”

“I’ve been trying for eight years.”

---

The timed circuit began forty minutes later.

It was not a race, officially.

Freya nevertheless identified the two strongest crews during the safety briefing.

“Red boat has good timing,” she said.

Shira adjusted the hem of the black swim top she had finally allowed herself to wear without the shirt.

“You know this is supposed to be recreational.”

“All competition is recreational until prize money.”

“There is no competition.”

“They’re recording finishing times.”

“For logistics.”

Freya gave her a look.

Shira sighed. “Of course.”

Sumi leaned toward them.

“I think we can win.”

“There is nothing to win,” Shira said.

“Exactly. No pressure.”

“That is almost the opposite of what you just said.”

They launched with eight other crews.

At first the harbor was crowded enough that Freya remained restrained. Once they passed the breakwater, however, she began calling a steadier cadence.

Shira had expected to resent this.

Instead, she liked it.

The harder strokes had a clean simplicity to them. There was no room for the part of her brain that replayed conversations from six years earlier or wondered whether someone across a room had disliked the way she said hello.

There was only:

Catch.

Drive.

Release.

Recover.

Again.

They passed one boat.

Sumi cheered.

“We passed them!”

“They can hear you,” Shira said.

“That’s okay! They’re doing great too!”

The other crew laughed.

Freya increased the rate.

“Don’t encourage her.”

They passed another.

Now even Shira felt something unfamiliar and dangerous growing in her chest.

Competitive interest.

She suppressed it.

Then they rounded a marker buoy and saw the boat ahead of them turn sideways.

At first it looked deliberate.

Then someone shouted.

One oar had swung awkwardly out of position. The boat rolled sharply toward port. A woman near the stern slipped halfway from her seat and caught herself against the side.

The boat did not capsize.

It did not need to.

The woman froze.

Even from twenty meters away, Shira recognized the posture.

Rigid shoulders.

Hands gripping too hard.

Someone beside her was saying something quickly.

The woman shook her head.

Freya kept rowing.

“The safety launch is coming,” she said.

Shira looked back.

The launch was on the far side of the marker, already attending to another boat.

The stranded crew drifted farther sideways.

“Stop.”

Freya took another stroke.

“They’ve got staff.”

“Freya.”

“They’re coming.”

Shira watched the woman.

She knew that expression.

The awful feeling that everyone had seen you lose control of yourself.

The humiliation arriving before the danger had even passed.

“Freya. She’s scared.”

Freya stopped.

For perhaps half a second, nobody moved.

Then Freya turned their boat.

“Back it down. Sumi, light pressure right side.”

Sumi obeyed without joking.

They came alongside slowly.

Freya was suddenly all concentration.

“Don’t grab our boat,” she called. “We’re stable. Just stay where you are.”

The frightened woman looked at them.

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” Sumi said immediately.

The woman shook her head.

“I can’t get back in position.”

“You don’t have to yet,” Shira said.

Her own voice surprised her.

Everyone looked at her.

Shira hated this.

She continued anyway.

“Just sit where you are.”

The woman swallowed.

“Everyone’s waiting.”

“No one cares.”

This was not strictly true. Several people were, in fact, waiting.

Shira decided accuracy could temporarily go to hell.

“You’re fine,” she said. “You don’t have to fix everything at once.”

The woman loosened one hand.

“That’s it,” Shira said.

Sumi nodded vigorously.

“You’re doing great.”

Shira glanced at her.

Sumi lowered her enthusiasm approximately fifteen percent.

“Very normal amount of great.”

The woman laughed despite herself.

Good.

Freya maneuvered their boat closer.

“Your foot stretcher slipped,” she told the other crew. “That’s why you lost position. It wasn’t you.”

The woman looked down.

“Oh.”

“Can you move your left foot?”

She did.

“Good. Don’t stand up.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Excellent.”

The safety launch arrived moments later.

Everything became procedural.

A staff member stabilized the boat. Another fixed the foot stretcher. The woman stayed seated.

Before the three friends pulled away, she looked at Shira.

“Thank you.”

Shira nodded.

She suddenly became intensely interested in the water.

---

They finished seventh.

Sumi reacted as though they had won an international championship.

“SEVENTH!”

“There were nine boats,” Freya said.

“Yes!”

“One had mechanical trouble.”

“Yes!”

“One stopped to help someone.”

“That was us!”

“Yes.”

“So really we were very busy.”

Freya laughed, but only a little.

They dragged the boat onto its rack.

Elena came over and thanked them for stopping.

“You did exactly what we want people to do out there.”

Freya nodded.

Sumi beamed.

Shira folded her arms.

This had the unfortunate effect of reminding her that she was still wearing a bikini top in public.

She unfolded them.

Then folded them again.

An event volunteer appeared carrying three small ribbons.

Sumi made a noise of delight.

Shira took one step backward.

“No.”

“Sportsmanship recognition,” the volunteer said.

“No.”

“Shira,” Freya said.

“I did not agree to recognition.”

Sumi accepted all three ribbons.

“Thank you!”

“You’re encouraging them.”

“They’re cute!”

“They’re yellow.”

“That’s a color.”

“I’m aware.”

Freya pinned hers to her bag.

Shira stared at her.

“What?”

“You’re keeping it?”

“Of course.”

“You wanted to win.”

Freya shrugged.

“I also like ribbons.”

---

They walked away from the crowd toward a quieter part of the beach.

Sumi stopped at a food stand because she claimed rowing had created a “nutritional emergency.”

Freya and Shira continued.

For a while they walked without speaking.

Then Freya said, “We could have placed.”

Shira glanced at her.

Freya was looking straight ahead.

“Probably third.”

“You calculated that?”

“I calculate things.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe second.”

“Freya.”

“I know.”

They walked another few steps.

“I’m glad we stopped,” Freya said.

“I know.”

“I just wish I weren’t annoyed about it.”

Shira looked at her.

Freya kicked lightly at the sand.

“It seems petty.”

“You wanted to win.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It sort of does.”

Freya frowned.

Shira sighed.

“Stopping actually cost you something,” she said. “I think that makes it count more, not less.”

Freya looked at her.

“When did you become Marcus Aurelius?”

“Approximately eleven minutes ago.”

“Should I be taking notes?”

“No.”

Freya smiled.

Shira nudged her shoulder lightly against Freya’s.

“You did the right thing.”

Freya nodded once.

“Thanks.”

They kept walking.

After several seconds, Shira added, “You still would not have beaten the red boat.”

Freya turned.

“What?”

“They were better.”

“They were not.”

“They were.”

“Their recovery timing was sloppy.”

“They beat us by four minutes.”

“Because we stopped.”

“Sure.”

“We need to do this again.”

Shira stopped walking.

“No.”

Freya smiled.

“You liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You were smiling.”

“There is no evidence.”

“Sumi saw it.”

“Sumi also thinks she can tell when avocados are emotionally ready.”

“She’s usually right.”

From behind them came a shout.

“GUYS!”

They turned.

Sumi was running toward them carrying a paper tray.

“I invented something.”

Shira closed her eyes.

“What did you do?”

“Grilled peaches, chili salt, lime, and this yogurt sauce they had.”

Freya examined the tray.

“They sell this?”

“Not exactly. They sell all the pieces.”

Freya took one.

She bit into it.

Stopped chewing.

Looked at Sumi.

“Sumi.”

“What?”

“You could sell this.”

Shira groaned.

“Not again.”

Sumi took one herself.

“I think it needs mint.”

Shira took a peach.

It was astonishing.

She hated both of them.

---

That evening the light softened.

The beach emptied slowly. Families packed umbrellas. Children carried buckets back toward the parking lot. Somewhere farther down the shore, somebody was playing guitar badly but earnestly.

Sumi had made them walk back to the water after dinner because the sunset was “too emotionally significant to waste.”

They stood near the dunes.

Freya had changed into an orange bikini top and shorts.

Sumi was still wearing blue.

Shira had put her black top back on after showering because Sumi had spilled tomato sauce on her only clean shirt.

This, Sumi maintained, was fate.

Shira maintained that Sumi was banned from interpreting fate.

“We need a picture,” Sumi said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“We never take pictures.”

“I take pictures.”

“Of buildings.”

“Buildings hold still.”

Freya took Sumi’s phone.

“One picture.”

Shira looked at her.

“Traitor.”

“You’ll want it later.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then delete it later.”

Sumi crowded in beside Shira.

Freya set the timer on a low railing and hurried back.

“Okay!” Sumi said. “Everybody look alive!”

“I refuse.”

Sumi threw one arm upward.

Freya leaned toward them.

Shira folded her arms across herself.

She knew exactly how she looked.

Too exposed.

Too pale.

Too stiff.

Too aware of every inch of herself.

She stared at the camera with the expression of someone awaiting sentencing.

The phone clicked.

Sumi immediately ran to retrieve it.

“Oh my God.”

“No.”

“This is perfect.”

“No.”

“Shira!”

“No.”

“You look so mad!”

“I am.”

Freya looked over Sumi’s shoulder.

She started laughing.

Shira held out her hand.

“Delete it.”

“No.”

“Sumi.”

Sumi looked down at the photograph again.

“No. This is us.”

Shira stared at her.

“I have disliked every sentence you’ve said for the last twenty-four hours.”

Sumi hugged her.

Shira remained rigid for approximately two seconds.

Then she hugged her back.

“Get off.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Freya joined them.

Shira groaned.

“This is intolerable.”

Neither woman released her.

---

Four days later, Shira was home.

Her apartment was dark except for a lamp beside the sofa.

AFI played through the little speakers connected to her iPod.

Her phone lay in her hand, monochrome as always, every icon rendered in shades of gray.

Sumi had sent sixty-three photographs from the trip.

Freya had sent three.

Two were screenshots of rowing statistics.

Shira scrolled.

The cottage.

Coffee.

Sumi holding an enormous shell.

Freya standing beside a sign that said NO RUNNING ON BOARDWALK.

Freya running on the boardwalk.

The rowing boats.

A blurry photograph Sumi had taken from shore.

The yellow ribbons.

The peaches.

Then the beach picture.

Shira stopped.

There they were.

Sumi in the middle, arm thrown high, grinning as though the universe had personally delivered summer for her entertainment.

Freya beside her, relaxed and certain, looking ready to challenge the ocean to best-of-three.

And Shira.

Arms folded.

Hair half across her face.

Looking profoundly inconvenienced by existence.

She zoomed in.

It was worse than she remembered.

She almost laughed.

Then she looked at the three of them together.

For a long time, she did nothing.

The song changed.

Shira tapped the little heart.

Favorite.

She locked the phone.

Unlocked it again.

Looked at the photograph.

Then, with the furtiveness of someone committing a minor crime, she opened the settings and made it her lock screen.

The picture turned gray.

Sumi’s blue vanished.

Freya’s orange vanished.

The ocean became silver.

Shira considered the result.

Better.

She set the phone facedown on the table.

A message arrived almost immediately.

SUMI: BEACH AGAIN NEXT MONTH???

Shira stared at the ceiling.

Then she picked up the phone.

SHIRA: Absolutely not.

Three dots appeared.

Shira smiled before Sumi could answer.