Sixty

SIXTY

THE FIREHOUSE IN EAST Hampton offers a CPR course. Three summers ago, I earned my certification. If ever I was walking the beach or swimming in the ocean with no lifeguard on duty and saw somebody drowning, I'd be ready.

I was a good student but never had the opportunity to use what I'd learned.

Until right now.

"You need to be prepared if there ever comes a day when the shit gets real," one of my instructors, Shawn Roney, had told me.

Without hesitation, I kick off my sneakers and toss my cell phone next to my gun and dive into the pool.

I swim to her and lift her head, no idea if she's dead or alive, and somehow manage to get us both down to the shallow end. It then takes all my strength to lift her out of the water and onto the deck. I roll her onto her back. She doesn't appear to be breathing.

She can't have been in the water very long. But it doesn't take very long to drown. Maybe it took me fifteen minutes to get to her. Maybe a little more.

I feel for a pulse.

There is one.

Just not much of one.

But she's alive.

For now.

"He—or she—who hesitates loses the victim," Shawn told us in the CPR clinic.

I start doing chest compressions with both hands. Thirty, rapid fire. CAB, they call it. Compressions airway breathing. I go through the process now, keeping count in my head.

Then I start mouth-to-mouth.

Rescue breathing.

Tilt the head. Pinch the nose. Breathe in.

"You're not kissing them, you're sealing their mouth with yours," Shawn had taught me.

I breathe into Claire Jacobson's mouth once, then twice.

Nothing.

"Breathe!"

Like I'm shouting at the night.

Or the ocean.

Thirty more compressions, as quickly and firmly as I can. A little harder than before. Or maybe more desperate than before, not worrying that she might be the one who ends up with cracked ribs.

Just worrying that I'm running out of time to bring her back.

"Breathe, goddamn you!"

One more round of compression.

One last shot at mouth-to-mouth.

I pull back, gulping in air myself, even though I'm not the one who needs it.

No movement to her chest.

Eyes still closed.

I'm convinced I've lost her.

Then she coughs, just barely.

And opens her eyes.