Page 32 of Juicy Pickle

And exult in my success.

Because I don’t think Rhett Armstrong has the guts to kick me off the boat.

I laugh out loud. “Got you!” I call into the waves.

But in response, several fat drops of water land on my mission.

No, no!

I peer up at the sky. The clouds have gathered overhead. Is it going to rain on my sculpture?

I work swiftly to finish the cart.

I hollow out the inside as well as I can. The wheels are tricky, particularly at the base, where they want to crumble into the sand.

A light sprinkle starts to fall. I shove my phone in my bag so it won’t get wet, then immediately dig it out again to take a picture. I can feel bigger drops on my back, and I bet it’s about to come down. Nobody mentioned rain when we boated out to the island, but then I showed up really late. Maybe everyone else was given a heads-up.

I snap close-ups, a broader shot, then get on my belly to take an image with the gorgeous unbroken water behind it. I’m glad I walked a good distance so that I don’t have the cruise ship in the background.

But then, unexpectedly, Idohave the ship in my shot.

Why has the ship moved? Shouldn’t it stay in place until the small boats go back? Doesn’t it have an anchor the size of a small town holding it in place?

Panic rises. What is going on?

Then the deluge hits. It rains so hard that it feels like needles on my skin.

I toss everything in my bag and start racing toward the main beach.

14

RHETT

When I emerge from the water after another lengthy swim around a rock outcropping, I realize it’s raining.

Nobody mentioned anything about a storm today. Surely I would have been briefed if there were any threats that might cut the day short.

I pause, trying to decide if I should go back the way I came, which is a known distance, or press on.

I scan the beach ahead. It’s unbroken for quite a while, but there’s no hint of the party beach. And I can’t see the ship either, so there’s a lot of curving around to do.

Bailey is on the way back. I should go that way. Make sure she’s not working on that castle, ignoring the change in weather.

I dive back into the water, reversing my path like a real-life version of “Going on a Bear Hunt,” a song we would sing at camp when I was a kid.

I’m coming to a rock.

Can’t go over it.

Can’t go under it.

Have to swim around it.

When I make it back to the secondary beach, I take off in a solidly paced run, sticking to the packed wet sand to avoid the slowdown of the water or the potential pitfalls of debris farther up the shore.

It’s not long before I make it to the soggy mounds that used to be Bailey’s castle. She isn’t here.

Good. She’s probably back to the safety of the group.

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