As she rides by

went and then over again and in headfirst again. But this time I kept my eyes open, didn’t I, so I wouldn’t hit my aching head again when I came up. Which I certainly didn’t do, because when I fought my way back to the surface not only didn’t I hit my aching head again on the board, there was no board. The board had vanished. I dog-paddled around in a circle. The board had still vanished. I would have laughed, but I’d already ingested enough saltwater by then. I turned over on my back and floated for a moment. Up in the stratosphere a jet went by, leaving an arching vapor trail. Maybe it’s one of those reconnaissance babies that can take high-definition pictures of a dirty car license plate from fifty thousand feet, I mused. In which case, in a couple of days from now some desk jockey working for Air Force intelligence will be startled to see in the pile of photos in front of him the last shot ever taken of V. (for Victor) Daniel, just floating away while from time to time a wavelet washed over his enigmatic smile, one hand raised in a final (ironic?) farewell.
    Something nudged my feet. “Take me, great white shark,” I said. “I’m all yours.” Another nudge. I risked a quick peek. It was the surfboard, somehow, like a faithful hound, returned to seek its master.
    It was a kid who rescued me, about a half hour later and another few hundred yards farther out to sea. By then I had the shakes from the cold, my cheek was bleeding again, and I was flat-out exhausted from trying to paddle with my hands. The kid was in a dinky-looking skiff about six feet long with his girl, a six-pack of beer, and, hanging from the mast, one of those waterproof transistors they sell for those hepcats who have to have sounds even in the shower. It was the music I heard first; I didn’t know there was anyone within a mile of me as I was lying stretched out with my head on my bag flailing away and I hadn’t looked up for a while.
    Then the kid called out, “Hey, mister, you OK? You’re out a bit far.”
    “You’re telling me,” I managed to say, getting a last mouthful of saltwater as I did so. “Got room for one more? I would deeply appreciate a lift to somewhere solid.”
    “Sure, man, hop in,” the kid called over. He made a nifty turn, came up right beside me, the girl dropped the sail, and I clambered aboard best I could. Then the kid snaked a rope around the surfboard, made it tight, the girl hoisted sail, and off we went, towing the board behind us. The girl saw I was shivering and tossed me over a huge beach towel which I gratefully wrapped around myself, then she tossed a beer my way, then opened one for herself and the kid. It was a Coors Light, I noticed, not one of my favorites, but I had no trouble at all draining it in three long swallows.
    “So what happened, man?” the kid asked after a while. “The current catch ya? It’s pretty fierce here for a couple of miles, most surfers know that which is why you don’t see any around. Comin’ about,” he then said. The girl ducked; so did V. Daniel, just in time, and we came about, or turned, to you.
    “Stupid surfers you see around here,” I said. “Old, stupid, cold surfers.”
    “Dressed funny, too,” the girl said, taking in my yellow jogging outfit. “For surfing, that is.” She was dressed in a fetching black-and-white striped spandex one-piece, the kid in a pair of ragged and sun-bleached cut-offs. “Hi. I’m Chris. That’s Chris too, only for Christopher.”
    “V. Daniel,” I said. “V. for very, very grateful to you two.”
    “Lucky we didn’t go to Malibu with my folks, like we was gonna,” the girl said.
    “Like you was gonna,” the kid said, grinning. She made a face at him.
    We progressed at a good clip toward the shore, coming about from time to time. How pleasant to be sailing instead of paddling, I thought happily. What a brilliant invention, wind. Almost as brilliant as living instead of drowning. After my incomprehensible escape it is perhaps understandable that I was a little goofy with relief. “Danger past, God is forgotten,” someone once said. I dispute that. Someone else once said, “A life of danger moderates the dread of death.” I dispute that, too, Confucius.
    We were about a hundred yards from land when the kid asked me, “Anywheres special you want to get off, sir?”
    “Right there, son,” I said, pointing to the nearest stretch of beach, “would do me fine.”
    “You want it, you got it. Hang