I reached the shallows, where the water was only knee-deep and treacherously transparent. I had to crawl. On my belly. Like a marine. I dug my fingers into the sand and slithered, the waterline dropping from my chest to my waist to my… well. The moment of truth arrived when my feet touched dry land. I was behind a small rock outcropping, five meters from Elena.

I surfaced again, treading water. I had two options. Option A: Announce my predicament to the entire cove, including the elderly French couple painting watercolors on the rocks. Option B: Execute a tactical beach landing.

She threw it at my face.