No. 170

The beach stretched on around the peninsula with no end in sight. Desmond Crest had forgotten his sunglasses and had to squint to follow the arc of glaring white sand to his destination.

To get here he’d had to rent a kayak, a kayak he’d stupidly abandoned about twenty minutes ago. The rough map and shoddy description of his route from the man at the bar had both conspired to lead him well off the proper path. Nonetheless, Desmond was determined to get to the end. It was his first vacation in six years, and the first time he’d been anywhere tropical.

Up ahead, a stream cut a wide trench in the spotless beach. Desmond quickened his pace. This was the last landmark in the directions. He reached the fresh water and turned inland, taking one last look at the perfect white-capped waves that were washing the shore.

He felt an abrupt temperature change as he entered the shaded forest. He picked his way carefully upriver, trying to stay mostly on the larger rocks that dotted the waterway. The bartender had said it would be another ten minutes from the edge of the beach so Desmond estimated at least a half an hour, based on the margin of error thus far.

It had been closer to forty minutes by the time Desmond reached the falls. He came on them suddenly, rounding a bend to a scene more appropriate for a postcard or Hollywood blockbuster. Great torrents of sparkling green water swept over the edge, pounding dark boulders in the pool below. Ferns and palm trees lined the edges of the oasis.

Desmond was struggling to open his camera bag when he heard somebody yell from close by. He looked up just in time to see a tiny figure leap over the edge of the falls. He froze, unsure whether to run forward and help the person, or to stay put and avoid looking foolish when the popped back up.

His indecision ended up being the right decision, as he hadn’t moved before the jumper surfaced and swam with easy strokes towards him.

Desmond saw it was a girl.

“Hi,” she called from the water. “Are you here for a swim?”