Last Resort by Richard Dubois

water, arms flailing, hearing nothing but the rush of water and the thrust of my arms propelling me forward. I get several yards out and realize I am alone. I stop swimming. Conner is still on the beach laughing at me.
    “C’mon back,” he waves. “I was only kidding.”
    My face burns. Conner played me for a fool. I hesitate, treading water, and then a stubborn streak rises in me.
    “That’s okay, I still want to swim to the buoy,” I call back. “Like you said, it will be good exercise.”
    Gwen starts to protest. I pretend I cannot hear her and swim on. After a few minutes, I feel winded. Despite all my effort, the buoy seems only marginally closer, while my wife and everyone else on the beach appear to be miles away. Pausing to catch my breath, I look down and cannot see the bottom. How deep is it? I have never swum this far from land. If exhaustion overtakes me and I drown, no one will be able to reach me in time. Gritting my teeth, I continue towards the buoy. I can do this. I can call Conner’s bluff. To keep my imagination from dwelling on whatever hungry sea predators might be lurking beneath me, I imagine my triumphant return to the beach, shoving my swimming prowess in that arrogant asshole’s face. Gwen will kiss me and extol my incredible stamina. I will take it in my stride, chuckling and pulling her close to me, accepting compliments from all the guests gathered on the beach.
    I reach the buoy—a floating ball tethered to the sea bottom by a slimy, algae covered rope—and cling to it, panting heavily. As the black sailboat sails away, the crew point at me, say something to each other and chuckle. I give a weak wave. No one waves back. I turn to the beach. My wife is just a dot mixed in with the other dots. Now my imagination starts to get the better of me. I picture a shark—a ravenous tiger shark—circling in the deep blue below me, preparing for a fatal upwards rush towards my dangling legs. Or that barracuda—the one I saw poised so diligently over the reef. In a moment, I will feel it slice into me, opening a major artery. Feebly, I will struggle back to the shore but the blood loss will be too great for me to make it.
    I shake my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts from my brain. From this vantage point, the entire resort lays before me. How pathetic would I look if I refused to budge from the buoy and someone from the resort had to rescue me in a hobie cat? I am not about to find out. I rest for a few more minutes and then head back to shore.
    No matter how spent I feel stopping in the middle of the bay is not an option. To conserve energy I flip over on my back and paddle with my feet. My progress slows, but never stops. It seems like an eternity, but I reach the shallows and touch bottom.
    Don and Amy stand next to Gwen. Conner and Alexandra are nowhere in sight. So much for my victory lap.
    “That was a stupid thing to do,” Gwen scolds.
    I am too exhausted for much of a rejoinder and can only shrug.
    “We thought you’d be hanging out with Neptune, young man,” Don teases.
    “That…was…my…workout…for…the…day,” I pant, trying to make light of it all.
    “Really, Phillip, I cannot believe you,” Gwen mutters. “I am not ready to be a widow. You shouldn’t let Conner goad you into a stunt like that. I am just relieved you made it back.”
    I am too tired to mount much of a defense. How could I explain to Gwen that all my life jerks like Conner have mocked and ridiculed me? Conner, Patrick Farber—all the overconfident jackasses who feel I am no competition, simply someone to brush aside while they take what they want. Gwen should realize I am finally standing up for myself.
    Part of me wants to tell her all of this, but I do not.
    “Let’s get ready for lunch,” I tell her, and we head back to our room.
    After lunch, Gwen and I sign up to use one of the hobie cats. The hobie cat, which is the size of a compact car, is basically a miniature catamaran. Lorenzo