My Greek SEAL (5 page)

I grab my waterproof bag and duck inside the cabin. Through the water-spattered window, I see a crescent of white, pebbly sand. On this remote Greek beach, there are no fancy hotels, no rent-by-the-hour chairs. And we’re so close to the shore, I hear people talking, laughing, and splashing in the blue-green water. Beach goers are stretched out on towels and discount store chairs. Children and adults chase, play, wade and swim. A young boy laughs when a girl I suppose is his sister splashes him. Mask and snorkel wearing swimmers hover over the shallow aquamarine water, their gazes directed downward. I wonder what varieties of fish we’ll see during our swims and if they’ll differ from what I’ve seen in the Gulf of California.

Heaviness settles in my chest as I study the happy bathers on the beach. I wish more than anything I could let go of my problems and just be happy and feel like I’m really on vacation for a few minutes. I’d float on my back, my body bobbing over the gentle waves as I stare at the clear blue sky and watch the puffy white clouds skim across the azure sky. The image bursts like a bubblegum bubble. That won’t be me on this trip. I’ll be the one grinding my molars together, feeling my heart-rate race as I live each moment in survival mode. I could be starring in a reality show right now. Instead of wondering if I’ll get eliminated, though, I’m wondering if I can get through the day without bursting into tears. Without letting it slip that my life is in ruins and that I have no idea how I’m going to turn things around.

With an angry flourish, I snatch my goggles and cap from my bag. It’s time to get down to business. I’m going to swim this four hundred yards like it were the Olympics.

CHAPTER SIX

Libby sits in an inflatable boat two hundred meters away, waiting for our swim to begin. I tread water with ease and wait for Dmitri to blow the whistle. The salty, buoyant sea supports me like a life vest—slow, intermittent kicks and pulls are enough to keep my head above water. The breeze tickles the skin on my face and neck and my body rises and falls in the gentle waves. I feel comfortable at this moment, not calm exactly, but somehow better. Not like myself, but enough improved that I am able to imagine feeling normal again.

Maryann and her husband are kicking around a few feet away from me, their goggled-eyes gazing underwater. They told me during our climb down the ladder that they couldn’t wait to get in and see the fish and plants underwater. I’m sure if they start a few seconds late, they won’t care. Swimming in the slowest group would suit them just fine. They’re here to enjoy the water, not to swim fast or train for a triathlon.

On a normal day, I would be on a similar wavelength. Swimming along leisurely, watching fish dart in different directions, poking my head in caves, pausing on a beach for a sun bathe. But I’m on a my-life’s-a-wreck, annoyed-by-an-egotistical-Greek man wavelength, which hasn’t got the time to look at underwater flora and fauna. It’s entirely dedicated to kicking Eros’ arrogant ass.

I grind my teeth and huff out a breath, impatient for Dmitri to blow the damn whistle. I bet even the thought of being beaten by a woman would make Eros break out in hives. He had better be prepared for the most ego-busting moment of his life because in a few minutes he’s going to eat my bubbles. I chuckle loudly. I hear the blast of the whistle and bury my head in the water, nearly choking on my hysteria.

I grip the thick, saline water with each catch and pull it through, establishing a smooth, powerful rhythm. I thrust my toes down through the water at a fast tempo whenever my head is down after a breath to propel me through the water when my alignment is most efficient. Without the restriction of walls and the need for turns, I swim my way to a rhythm I’ve never experienced in the confines of a swimming pool. My open ocean stroke is powerful and smooth and almost effortless.

Peering through the lens of crystal clear water, an endless bed of white sand stretches out below me. To my right are tilted layers of white limestone. Silver fish scatter in unison at one angle and then another, trying to avoid me. Where the sand drops off into the depths, the water is a deep cerulean blue. For the first time that day, a sense of contentment washes over me. Instead of stressed and overwrought, I feel almost giddy with joy.

Lost in my world of enjoying the underwater views, my pace slackens. Eros rockets out in front of me until I see only bubbles and the faint outline of his feet. I have to catch him. Beating him is the quickest way to put him in his place and keep him away from me the rest of the trip. But drafting off of him wouldn’t hurt. I swim right behind him, falling into his slipstream where I can conserve energy. Later, I’ll be able to swim all out without much difficulty while he’ll be fatigued and out-of-breath. My hands nearly touch his toes with every reach of my stroke. I decide to hold back until we swim around Libby and her inflatable boat. Then I’ll make my move.

The warm sea massages my body like nimble fingers. The swim feels a little like meditation, a little like a sexual experience. Kind of strange, but I can’t think of any other way to explain it. I’ve always found the sensation of water sensual, but swimming through this warm, salty sea, feels almost erotic.

As we round the inflatable, I kick my mind out of my relaxed meditative state. It’s time to kick some ass. I thrust my toes down with more force. My arms accelerate faster and faster. Pulling with as much force as I can muster, I angle my body away from Eros’ feet so I can pass him on the left. As I work to overtake him, I see a tanned ankle, a hairy calf, his navy blue swimsuit and a sexy, deeply tanned stretch of abdomen and chest. In a matter of seconds, I’ll be ahead. When he takes his next breath, his open mouth tenses and wrinkles appear on his brow.

Clearly, being beaten doesn’t appeal to him. A wave splashes into my mouth. I cough and spit out the salty water. I continue stroking at the fastest speed I can muster. His rippled abdomen disappears and I see a dark flash before I’m back to seeing a view of Eros’ thighs.

Damn it. I’m losing ground. At first I feel tempted to give up. My muscles are cramping and now the water feels more suffocating than comfortable. I fight down the urge to slow my pace. There is no way in hell I’m letting him beat me. I kick and pull faster, faster until I’ve reached a tempo I’d maintain for a one hundred meter freestyle, not the last two hundred meters of a four hundred meter swim.

My lungs burn like fire. I fight against giving in to the discomfort. I have raced before and worked out all the time before this job disaster struck. I’m not completely out of shape yet. I can handle a little fast and furious swimming. To distract myself from the pain, I focus on each thrust of my toes, each powerful pull beneath my body.

Instead of the profile of his knee, I’m seeing Eros’ thick muscled thigh whenever I breathe. And then the dark swimsuit reappears. Yes! Thriving off of the momentum of the small victory, I stroke with even more fury. I glimpse a hairy armpit and his angry face before I rotate my head underneath the water for four more strokes. A giddy laugh slips from my lips, echoing underwater. I have to breathe early to avoid swallowing more water. We’re head to head now. The obsession of beating Eros and the pain of the exertion transforms to elation. My head and my limbs feel weightless. I feel superhuman, like I have amazing powers. There’s no way Eros can beat me now.

I turn my head to breathe again. The sound of his heaving breath tells me he’s near exhaustion. The strained lines that mar Eros’ tanned brow show he’s not ready to give up yet.

My confidence surges to the highest level I’ve experienced for way too long. I’ve almost forgotten what freedom and strength feel like. But now that I’ve released myself from the cage I let myself become imprisoned inside, I remember how empowering being in tune with myself can be. I don’t ever want to let go of this feeling. I was so stupid to let the job situation kill my confidence. My job doesn’t define who I am. I shouldn’t have abandoned my exercise routine. I shouldn’t have dropped onto the couch with only a wine bottle and a gallon of ice cream for company. Lying around feeling sorry for myself, I forgot how empowering it felt to push my body to its physical limits.

A thought passes through my mind like a floating cloud. I’m strong. I’m tough. I can get through this job loss and come out on the other side. I didn’t even enjoy being a sales manager. Maybe I could have if my boss wasn’t a complete prick. It was fun traveling across the country and meeting new people, but always the thrill of the trips and closing the sales conflicted with the frustration I felt over my boss’s unethical business practices. Change is what I needed all along. I was just too blind to see it. I’ll start over. Find work that’s awesome instead of a chore.

Every nerve ending in my brain tingles with excitement. My body reacts to this stream of positive thoughts—the first ones I’ve had for weeks—and all at once it feels as though I’m transforming my broken life one stroke at a time. A favorite song plays in my head, matching the tempo of my stroke.

Now I’m a full body length ahead of Eros. But suddenly beating him no longer matters. It’s beating this defeatist attitude that’s been pulling me deeper and deeper into a well of depression that’s my new ultimate goal. I’ll use each swim this week to plan my new life. And by the time the vacation ends, I’ll be excited and ready to start over. I sight ahead and see the boat is only twenty or so meters ahead.

I feel a lurch of sadness that the swim will soon end. I don’t want to let go of this moment. I want to cling to it forever. This feeling of empowerment, this feeling like I could keep on swimming and swimming and swimming. I stroke to the side of the boat and stop, raising my goggles to my forehead and offering my name to Dmitri so he can write me on his list. Eros swims up beside me and pulls his goggles off and slaps the water in frustration. “There’s no way you can keep that pace for five kilometers,” he says breathlessly.

“How would you kn—“

“Don’t be a sore loser, Eros,” Dmitri calls out.

I frown and swim toward the ladder, not wanting an argument with Eros to dull the shine of my starting over experience. I don’t want or need anyone’s opinions on my swimming or anything else about my life right now. I’ll figure it all out on my own. I look back and see that many of the other swimmers are only half way done with the course. Maybe I can linger in the water a little longer instead of getting on the boat now. I call up to Dmitri and ask if I can explore for a minute or two. He nods and smiles.

I swim away from the boat on the side closest to the shore. Once I reach the shallows, my goggled eyes study the layers of white limestone that tilt at a steep angle away from the shore, the few stray olive-colored plants that are growing in the white powdery sand, undulating slowly through the clear water. A silver fish peers out of a crevice eroded in the limestone. The water world is so serene and feels so safe. Once again, I’m aware of the contented feeling welling up inside of me. I need to be here in Greece. A week of reflection and calm, free of distraction is just what I need to purge myself of the past and start over.

CHAPTER SEVEN

After spending another hour in the sea to have our swimming recorded on video, we boarded the boat and headed for Vathi on Meganisi Island. We sit around a long, rectangular table on an outdoor patio. It’s hard to look at the menu when our table offers such an amazing view of the bay. I gaze longingly at that aquamarine water.

Maryann and Randy sit to my right, Margie on my left. I haven’t spoken with Eros since the swim, but he’s sitting right across from me. I try to pretend not to notice his blatant stare. Is he still mad that I beat him? Isn’t that just too bad. He’s probably judging me, thinking me immature for making that grouping exercise into a race. I don’t care. I did what I did because I damn well wanted to. And it wasn’t like he was minding his own business and swimming at a leisurely pace.

I turn my fork over in one hand, avoiding Eros’ gaze. The fork slips from my hand and bounces from the table onto the stone floor. Shit. Isn’t that just my luck? I reach over and snatch it up, fastening my gaze on the floor as I jerk back up. I wipe my fork off with my napkin, set it down on the tablecloth and drop my hands into my lap.

I won’t give Eros the satisfaction of looking at him. He’s probably laughing or smirking or thinking something he shouldn’t. I’ll admit I think lewd thoughts every time I look at him. But I know his thoughts about me aren’t innocent. He’s probably imagining having sex with me every time the corners of his full lips twist up in that crooked smile and his gaze wanders up and down my body. He can dream on. Sex with him is not happening.

This past year, I’ve reached an all-time low on the dating scene. Men must age faster than women or something. Every guy I dated went on and on about all the sports he enjoyed when he was younger. I used to scuba dive. Used to cycle every weekend. Used to hike in the Catalina or Santa Rita Mountains every weekend they would say. Seriously? And now what do they do? Work, watch TV and drink beer. Just the way I want to spend my weekend...Not so much. I’m only twenty-eight and hanging around with these guys sent me rushing to look in the mirror to make sure my hair wasn’t turning gray and my forehead wasn’t creased with wrinkles. I haven’t totally given up on the idea of meeting the man of my dreams, but my concept of Prince Charming sure as hell isn’t a guy who thinks he’s over the hill at thirty.

I’m definitely not desperate for a relationship. It’s better to be alone than entangled with a guy I have nothing in common with. All the dates I’ve been on recently have been nothing short of a drag. Why can’t I meet anyone adventurous? Who has a crazy streak? A guy who would jump at the chance to join me for a weekend trip hike in New Mexico’s Gila Wilderness and soak butt naked in the hot springs afterward. A guy whose idea of a great vacation was exploring Mayan ruins in Central America or scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef or riding a camel in Tunisia. But I’m starting to think all the adventurous men are either married, egomaniacs or living in a state other than Arizona. Why am I even thinking about this now? It’s not like men are a priority right now. Figuring how I’m going to keep a roof over my head next month—yes, that is something I should be thinking about.