The Riptide Ultra-Glide

by Tim Dorsey

  The crew cut placed his hands on his hips in frustration. “Come on! Throw the fucking thing!”

  “ . . . Jackson Five! Three Dog Night! Turn your head to the side and cough! Hut! Hut! Hike!”

  Serge took the snap and faded back in a three-step drop. The stud sprinted down the beach.

  “ . . . It’s a blitz! Storms is forced to scramble! . . .” Serge dodged left and right. “ . . . He’s flushed out of the pocket! . . .” Serge ran in a circle. “ . . . His tight end picked up the linebacker! . . .” More scrambling . . .

  The stud stopped running. “Throw it!”

  “ . . . He’s got Janofski on his back! . . .” Serge ducked as a phantom player sailed over him. “ . . . I don’t see how he’s staying on his feet! . . . The crowd is losing its mind! . . .”

  “Throw it!”

  “ . . . He’s pressured toward the sideline! Here it is! The money play! He reaches back! He releases! Here’s your ball game, folks! . . .”

  The Nerf flew up in a tight spiral. The stud took off again. The ball arced higher into the blue. The stud picked up speed, now looking back over his shoulder as the ball began its ballistic descent.

  “I got it! I got it!”

  He continued sprinting on a perfect intersecting path with the ball’s trajectory.

  “I got it!”

  The ball fell into his fingers just as he reached Serge’s sand-castle fort.

  He stopped in the middle of the fort’s courtyard and raised the ball high over his head in triumph. “I told you I’d get it—”

  Boom.

  The sound concussion got everyone’s attention. A huge plume of sand flew into the air like Singer Island was under naval bombardment.

  “Where’d he go?” asked Coleman.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Coleman pointed with his beer. “Red stuff’s raining down into the water.”

  “That’s him.”

  Everyone started running. Lifeguards toward the explosion; everyone else in the other direction.

  Coleman calmly finished his Schlitz. “I thought you said there wasn’t a bomb in the football.”

  “There wasn’t,” said Serge, picking up the canvas beach bag. “I told you: too many innocent bystanders around. And in addition to the other reasons, the football would have been an above-ground detonation, which means shrapnel and other hazards could fly out sideways toward families and children. On the other hand, if a device was underground . . .”

  “Like buried beneath your sand fort?”

  “Hypothetically. Then the blast is vectored upward, eliminating lateral damage and only imperiling that which is directly above.”

  “Now I understand.” Coleman nodded. “He stepped on a makeshift land mine.”

  “Still too risky,” said Serge. “What if a toddler wandered over and stepped on it first before I could scramble out of the pocket? My top priority is public safety.”

  Behind them, people stampeded away from the black smoke rising out of the crater.

  Coleman reached in the bag hanging from Serge’s shoulder and came out with another beer. “Then how’d you blow him up?”

  “Hypothetically again, what if some rascal had glued a garage-door opener inside the football? With the button taped down in the on position? Those things have a fairly limited range.”

  “You wanted to open a garage door?”

  “No, unimaginative people might want to use it to trigger the actuator on a garage door and park their car for the night.” A fire engine raced by. “But what if a certain person decided that instead of wiring the receiver to a garage-door motor, he attached it to a blasting cap under a Spanish sand fort? Oh, and some very small sticks of dynamite that went missing from a limestone quarry west of Miami.”

  Coleman tossed a beer can in the trash. “So you threw the football to lead him to the fort, and when the garage-door opener got within range . . . I like it. Spanish forts are cool.”

  Serge grabbed the door handle of the Torino. “History doesn’t have to be boring.”

  U.S. 1

  A canvas beach bag sat on a motel bed, brimming with sunscreen, towels, flip-flops and a throwaway camera.

  Patrick McDougall stood on a chair and pushed up a ceiling tile.

  Bar opened a dresser drawer. “What are you doing?”

  Patrick reached into unseen dust. “Hiding my wallet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because people keep knocking on our door.”

  “When was this?”

  “You were in the bathroom getting ready. And also before you woke up. Three so far.”

  “What did they want?”

  “First they acted like they had the wrong room.” Pat fit the ceiling panel back in place over his head. “Then they acted like it was the right room, and asked for a cigarette and said I could listen to their radio. I’m not familiar with the local customs, so I didn’t know where it was leading.”

  “All three said the same thing?”

  “No, the last was a woman who told me she was locked out of her room.”

  “Why is she coming to our room instead of the manager’s office,” said Bar. “We don’t have her keys.”

  “I pointed that out.” Pat hopped down from the chair. “She said she wanted to use my phone so she could call the people inside the room to open up for her.”

  “What about knocking on her own door?”

  “I mentioned that, too,” said Pat. “I think something else was going on.”

  “My Sherlock Holmes.”

  Pat pointed up at the ceiling. “That’s why I’m taking steps.”

  “Do you think we’re in any danger from those people?” asked Bar. “They could come back.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Pat. “I watched through the curtains after the woman left. Wanted to see if she tried knocking on her room or went to the manager’s office.”

  “Did she?”

  “No, she went across the parking lot and around behind a Dumpster. Then she ducked down.”

  “Did you see her again?”

  “About five minutes later, her head popped up behind the trash bin like a woodchuck. Then back down. It happened a couple more times before I got tired of watching.”

  Bar looked toward the ceiling. “With your wallet in there, what are you bringing to the beach?”

  Pat went over to the nightstand. “My backup wallet.” He displayed a cheap fabric billfold. “I transferred just a little cash and an ATM card, because nobody can use it without the PIN number. In the other compartment is my reserve driver’s license.”

  “Reserve?”

  “A couple years ago I read a travel tip: Always have a reserve photo ID packed separately on vacation in case you lose the first one. Otherwise you can’t clear security and get on the plane for home. So I paid ten bucks for a duplicate license I told them I’d lost.”

  “You lied?”

  “I fibbed. Don’t say anything. It was the travel tip.”

  “Sometimes you worry too much.” She jammed a box of Ritz Crackers in the beach bag. “I’m not criticizing; just don’t want you to lose your hair.”

  “Remember when we locked ourselves out of the house, but instead of breaking a window, I’d buried a key in the yard?” Pat tapped a finger on his temple. “Worrying can also have benefits.”

  “What will you do with the backup wallet while we’re swimming?”

  “Leave it onshore with our beach blanket, hidden inside my shoe.”

  Bar unzipped a suitcase. “Isn’t the shoe where everybody puts it?”

  “I’ve never heard that.”

  She stood silent, staring down into the dresser drawer.

  Pat slipped into his swim trunks. “What’s the matter?”

  “These drawers are disgusting.
The room doesn’t look like the photos.”

  “We’ll barely be in the room.”

  “But where am I going to unpack?” She walked gingerly across the soiled rug, keeping her arms tight to her body, just as she had ever since they’d gotten inside and fastened all the locks. “Ick, the closet’s worse. There’s something splattered on the wall.” She reached down and pulled a small butter-white square from the nap of the carpet. “Is this what they call crack?”

  “I don’t know,” said Pat, tying off the strings hanging from the front of his swim trunks. “But better put it down. Maybe you can get high from just touching it.”

  “Doubt it,” said Bar. “I’ll just throw it in the wastebasket.” She stood over their luggage with her hands on her hips. “Where am I going to store our stuff?”

  Pat peeled open a power bar. “Maybe just leave it in the bags. We only got the two smallest suitcases.”

  “Thanks to the airline.” She opened her cell phone. “Which reminds me.”

  Pat got back up on the chair.

  “What are you doing?” asked Bar.

  “Making sure I remember where my wallet is.”

  Someone came on the line. Bar pulled the cell close to her ear. “Yes . . . I’m calling to check on some lost luggage . . .” She gave the baggage specialist all the particulars, then became silent.

  Pat replaced a ceiling tile. “What’s going on?”

  Bar covered the phone. “She’s checking her computer.” Bar uncovered the phone. “Yes, I’m still here . . . Cincinnati?”

  Pat jumped down from the chair. “What’s Cincinnati got to do with anything?”

  Bar held up a hand so she could hear the person on the phone. “What are our bags doing in Cincinnati? . . . I see . . . But you’re sure they’re going to be on the very next flight down here? . . . Four o’clock? . . . Okay, thank you.” She hung up. “Unbelievable. It’s one thing if they lose your bags on the flight home, and you’ve got all your other stuff in the house, but it really affects a short vacation.”

  “Honey,” said Pat. “They told you they were on the next flight. That’s just until this afternoon. We’ll be at the beach until then.”

  “But I won’t feel comfortable until they’re in hand.”

  “You’re the one who always talks about not worrying,” said Pat. “Besides, think of it another way: Every vacation has a glitch, and we’ve just gotten ours out of the way.”

  “I thought this motel was the glitch.”

  “Okay, two glitches,” said Pat. “What are the chances? That means it can only get better from here.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Just look out the window. It’s an absolutely beautiful day.” Pat grabbed a tiny cooler of generic soda they’d bought at Publix. Then he took her in his arms and gave her a kiss. “This is our special time. We’ll only be here so long, and there are only so many hours of great weather to catch. Our luggage will be sitting here or in the motel office when we get back.”

  “I guess you’re right.” She grabbed sunglasses off the top of the TV. “But what about my purse?”

  Pat climbed up on a chair and raised a ceiling tile. “Hand it to me . . .”

  Soon a rented Impala turned east off U.S. 1 and headed down a desolate road of wild marsh vegetation. Except for one unusually large building with an athlete painted on the side, swinging a curved basket.

  “What’s that?” asked Bar.

  “The fronton,” said Pat. “I remember it from when I was kid. Let’s go watch jai alai tonight.”

  “What do they do?”

  “It’s like racquetball, except faster and Spanish.”

  Their car finally reached the Atlantic Ocean and turned south.

  “Now, this is A1A,” said Pat. “Welcome to Dania Beach.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Bar. “Was it like this when you were young?”

  “No, we used to be able to find a place to park.”

  A half hour later, the Impala drove under a low-hanging yellow iron bar and angled up a ramp.

  “A parking garage on the beach?” asked Bar.

  “Not what I remember.” Pat reached the fourth level before he could find a slot.

  Voices and footsteps echoed through the deck as Pat fed money into a machine that spit out a windshield ticket giving them until 5:41 P.M. Eastern Time. It was a half block to the beach. Snack counters, burger shacks, a shaded seating area with a giant plastic ice-cream cone, a beach bar with someone playing three-chord Chicago blues in French. Bicycle rentals, scooter rentals, cabana rentals, no refunds, no parking, no dogs allowed on beach, no wet suits inside, bathrooms for customers only.

  “Don’t feed the birds!” someone yelled from a pizza window.

  Bar quickly jumped out of the way as an oiled-up man zipped by on Rollerblades, checking a cardio monitor strapped to his arm. Someone else furiously pedaled a recumbent bicycle.

  Bar turned as they went by. “I thought the beach was for relaxation.”

  “I was only six.”

  The couple strolled hand in hand across a vast expanse of shore, covered with bright umbrellas in primary colors and a hundred shoes with wallets. They spread out a Green Bay Packers blanket on the sand and just dropped everything. The water awaited. Off they ran. Pat had oversize trunks with football helmets; Bar’s one-piece suit was sexier than most bikinis. They splashed in together, still holding hands. Perfect temperature. They waded out until they were neck-deep and fifty yards from the nearest kid screaming on a raft. Bar climbed on Pat’s back and wrapped her arms around his neck. A kiss on the side of the head. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “I’ve never seen water this color. Look how it changes with the depth.”

  “It ain’t Lake Erie.”

  “The motel threw me at first,” Bar confessed. “But you were right. This vacation is just what we needed.”

  “W-what are you doing?”

  “What?” A coy smile.

  “Bar!” Pat glanced around quickly to see if anyone was watching. Then he looked down in the water at her purposeful hands. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “What are you talking about?” The smile widened.

  They sank to chin level and slowly began a pirouette without speaking. Just a gaze into each other’s eyes that they’d never lost.

  Another slow romantic turn in the water. The water was at the top of their necks. Bar raised her chin above a wave. “Are you crouching down?”

  “No,” said Pat. “The water’s getting deeper.”

  Bar smiled at a playful angle. “Are you fooling around?”

  Pat shook his head. “I’m on my tiptoes . . . Now I’m not on my tiptoes. I can’t feel the bottom.”

  “You’re treading water?”

  “I think it’s the tide or something. We should swim in to shallower water.”

  “Okay.”

  They released each other and began dog-paddling. Two minutes went by.

  “I still can’t feel the bottom,” said Bar. “Are we getting closer to shore?”

  “No,” said Pat, paddling harder. “In fact, we’re farther.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Those buoys marking the end of the swimming area used to be behind us, and now they’re in front . . . We better swim faster.”

  They both broke into an all-out freestyle stroke. Five minutes later, Bar stopped and came up sputtering and gasping. “I’m all out of breath . . . Wait . . . Have to rest . . . How much farther . . . do we have to go? . . .”

  “Hold on . . . Give me a second . . .” Patrick did his own hyperventilating and came up coughing as a wave crashed over them. “Looks like we’re even farther . . .”

  “But how is that possible? . . . We’ve exhausted ourselves . . . swimming . . . f
or five minutes.”

  “I don’t know . . . but the buoys . . . are now . . . way back there.”

  “Pat,” said Bar. “On the beach . . . A guy’s waving at us.”

  “It’s the lifeguard . . . He’s got a megaphone . . .”

  “I can’t make out what he’s saying . . . Sounds like ‘riptide.’ ”

  They timed the next wave and held their breaths so they wouldn’t choke. Their heads popped back up. “What’s a riptide?”

  “Beats me,” said Bar. “But now a whole bunch of other people are standing at the edge of the water and waving.”

  “They’re all motioning to the left,” said Pat. “And the lifeguard is saying something else in his megaphone.”

  “I think he’s telling us to swim parallel to the beach.”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bar. “But he’s got a megaphone, so he must know what he’s talking about.”

  “Okay, ready when you are,” said Pat, taking a few last deep breaths. “Just stay ahead of me so if you’re tiring out again, I’ll know . . .”

  They took off splashing again.

  Three minutes later, Bar stopped and grabbed Pat’s arm. “Need to rest again . . . Do we keep swimming this way?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Pat. “The people on the beach are waving us toward them . . . And there’s a lifeguard on a paddleboard coming out. He’s pulling a spare board.”

  The couple headed toward shore at a much slower rate, but making progress this time. Halfway back, they met the lifeguard. “Grab this paddleboard side by side and kick with your feet.”

  The couple stretched their arms over the top of the waxed board and began splashing toward shore. “What just happened?” asked Bar.

  “You got caught in a riptide,” said the lifeguard.

  “A what?”

  “Lots of tourists don’t know, but sometimes underwater channels form in the sand, and when waves go back out, their speed is greatly increased because of the depth and added volume the channel can accommodate.”

  “We were over one of those channels?” asked Pat.

  “Must have been,” said the lifeguard. “The suction is deceptively strong, and a lot of people drown because they follow natural instinct and try to fight it by swimming straight for shore, but that only takes them farther out and exhausts them.”