Grayson by Lynne Cox Read Free Book Online Page B

of wind blowing through them.
    As the waves broke, a new movement emerged. The rush of the waves plucked the beach like the strings of a harp, making high, sweet notes. The swirling breezes strummed the water’s surface and the tiny wind waves sounded like the flowing notes of a piano.
    In the background the deep resonant clangs of the shipping buoys, plaintive cries of the seagulls, and calls of the willets became a part of this great sea symphony, and I enjoyed each movement until I heard an incessant high-pitched whine, like the outboard engine on my grandfather’s fishing boat.
    Quickly, I lifted my head and moved my arms fast, splashing them hard against the water to make myself more visible.
    I could tell by the way the skipper was holding themotor and peering over the bow of his boat that it was Carl. My mood immediately lifted. I raised my arm high above my head and waved. Carl was an old man who fished along the shores of Seal Beach and Long Beach. He used worms like my grandfather and sometimes lures, but he believed he caught the most fish with night crawlers. He had a compost pile at the back of his house where he tossed his grass clippings and vegetable peels, and he grew the longest night crawlers I’d ever seen.
    Carl tipped his white sailor’s cap and turned his boat toward me. His face was red and deeply etched from years of being on the water. He wore dark sunglasses to protect his light blue eyes.
    Carl loved to stop and talk. His wife had passed away long ago and he still missed her company. But while he liked people, he enjoyed fishing alone; that way he didn’t have to wait for anyone or be on anyone else’s schedule. Sometimes he brought an older friend—he was kind of a grouch—but Carl did it because he said his friend’s wife had passed away too and he was lonely. I thought it was nice of Carl to do that, since I’d much rather be alone than be withsomeone cranky. Carl and I didn’t see each other very often. It usually took him some time to get himself going in the morning; he was usually starting to fish when I was finishing up my workout.
    But I loved to see him. He always had some news or information that I could think about when I swam. Just as good, Carl usually caught an extra halibut or two, and he always gave me some to bring home for dinner. It was always a little strange kicking ashore while holding a five- to ten-pound dead halibut above my head with fish juices sliding down my arms.
    No fish ever tasted as fresh or as sweet as the ones Carl gave me. I liked the fish even more because they were from Carl and I could tell he was as excited about giving me the fish as I was receiving them from him.
    Carl was perplexed. He saw me floating on my back: He had never seen me do that; usually I was swimming on pace. He thought something was wrong, and when I told him about the lost baby whale, he smiled as if he had just been given an answer to another of life’s mysteries. He hadn’t had a nibble on his line all morning and it hadn’t made sense. Thefishing conditions seemed perfect, and usually he caught at least two or three fish.
    The baby whale must have scared the fish away. Carl thought the baby was still somewhere nearby. He told me he would cruise the shore and radio Steve if he saw anything at all. Sometimes, he said, the important things take time, sometimes they don’t happen all at once, sometimes answers come out of time and struggle, and learning. Sometimes you just have to try again in a different way.
    He knew so much more than I did, and I always liked talking with him. He turned his boat, glanced back over his shoulder, tipped his hat, and motored along the shore.
    Try again one more time. Try diving into deeper water. If you can’t find the baby whale this time, then it’s time to try something else.
    Diving below the water, I pulled as fast and as hard as I could to get down as deep as I could go. From moment to moment the world changed. I swam through a