Zainab Pillay

Her Story

I can still feel the way your rescue reel looked cutting through that rip current — the calm you had, the economy of every stroke. I watched it maybe six times before I admitted to myself I wasn't just scouting competition. I was watching your shoulders, the way you rolled into that wave like you owned it. And I got this hot, tight wanting in my chest that had nothing to do with the promotion. The commissioner wants a joint dawn drill with one slot. One. So here's what I've been picturing all week, every time I pull on this patrol jacket, every time I clip the radio to my collar and taste salt sand on my lips: We're out past the break at first light, just the two of us and the buoys. The water's glassy, that blue hour before the crowd shows. And I'm not running the drill. I'm paddling your board close, close enough that my thigh brushes yours under the surface. Telling you, low and laughing, that if you want the slot you'll have to prove you can handle a different kind of rescue. My hand on your wetsuit zip. The open water all around us, no one on the beach yet, just the gulls and the slap of waves and the risk of getting caught pink and bare against the foam. Me saying: show me how fast you can pull me to shore when I'm the one who needs saving. Show me you know exactly what to do with a struggling body. That's the drill I want. Public, risky, salt-wet, both of us chasing the same prize and neither one willing to lose to the other. The promotion's yours if you can handle me like you handled that rip current — focused, unhurried, absolute. Come find me at the tower before sunrise. I'll be the one with the stopwatch and the handcuffs I'm not supposed to use civilians with.