then she rounded the headland and the force of the storm hit head on.
She could hardly see. Wind and sand were blasting her face, blinding her.
Was it all her imagination? Was she risking herself for a bit of floating debris? The tide was coming in—fast.
She’d come this far. There were rocks at the water’s edge. She was pushing her way along the rocks, frantically searching, trying to see out into the waves. Where...?
* * *
He was falling and falling and falling. He had no idea how long he’d been in the water, how far he’d drifted, how desperate his position was. All he knew was that every few seconds he had to find the will to breathe. It was as easy and as impossible as that.
His body was no longer his own. The sea was doing what it willed. Waves were crashing over and around him. The chance to breathe often stretched to twenty, even thirty seconds.
He could think of nothing but breathing.
But then something sharp was crashing against his leg. And then his shoulder. Something hard, immoveable...
Solid. Rocks?
The water washed out and for a blessed moment he felt himself free of the water.
Another wave and it must have been twenty seconds before he could breathe. Whatever he was lying on seemed to be holding him down.
Another wash of water and he was free, hurled away from the sharpness, tossed high.
Onto sand?
He was barely conscious but he got it. His face was buried in sand.
Until the next wave.
Somehow he lifted his head. Sand. Rocks. Cliff.
The water came again but he was ready for it. He dug down, clung like a limpet.
The wave swept out again and somehow miraculously he stayed.
He couldn’t resist the water’s force again, though. He had to crawl out of the reach of the waves’ power. Somehow...somehow... The world was an aching, hurting blur. The sand was the only thing he could cling to.
He clung and clung.
And through it all was the mantra. Make Jake safe. Dear God, make Jake be okay.
Another wave. Somehow he managed to claw himself higher, but at what cost? The pain in his leg...in his head...
He could close his eyes, he thought. Just for a moment.
If Jake was safe he could close his eyes and forget.
* * *
And then she found it. Him.
Dear God, this was no detritus washed up in the storm. This was a dark-haired, strongly built man, wearing yachting gear and a lifejacket.
He was face down in the sand. He’d lost a shoe. His pants were ripped. Lifeless?
As she reached him she could see a thin line of blood seeping down his face. Fresh blood. He’d been alive when he’d been washed up.
His hands were sprawled out on the sand. She knelt and touched one and flinched with the cold. His skin was white and clammy—how long had he been in the water?
She touched his neck.
A pulse! Alive!
She hauled him over—no mean feat by itself—so he lay on his side rather than face down. She was frantically trying to clear sand from mouth and nostrils. She had her ear against his mouth.
He was breathing. She could hear it. She unclipped his lifejacket and she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest.
There was so much sand. His face was impossibly caked. Wiping was never going to get rid of that sand.
He’d be sucking it into his lungs.
She hauled off her raincoat and headed into the waves, stooping to scoop water into the plastic. That was a risk by itself because the waves were fierce. She backed up fast, up the beach to where he lay, then placed her back to the wind and oozed the water carefully around his face. She was trying to rid him of the caked sand. How much had he already breathed?
Why was he unconscious? That hit on the head? Near drowning? With his mouth clear, she put her mouth against his and breathed for him. It wouldn’t hurt to help him, to get more oxygen in, to keep that raspy breathing going.
His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, more surely now that she was breathing with him.
She kept on breathing while the sleet slashed from all sides, while the wind howled and while wet sand cut into her face and hands, every part of her that was exposed.
What to do? The tide was coming in. In an hour, probably less, this beach would be under water.
She thought of the trolley, but to pull it on a sandy beach was impossible. This man must be six foot three or four and strongly built. She was five foot six and no wimp, but she was no match for this guy’s size.
How to move him? She couldn’t.
‘Please,’ she pleaded out loud, and she didn’t even know what she was pleading for.
But as if he’d heard, his body shifted. He opened his eyes and stared up at her.
Deep, grey eyes. Wounded eyes. She’d seen pain before and this man had it in spades.
‘You’re safe,’ she said, keeping her voice low and calm. Nurse reassuring patient. Nurse telling lies? ‘You’re okay. Relax.’
‘Jake...’ he muttered.
‘Is that your name?’
‘No, Ben. But Jake...’
‘I’m Mary and we can worry about Jake when we’re off the beach,’ she said, still in the reassuring tone she’d honed with years of district nursing. ‘I’m here to help. Ben, the tide’s coming in and we need to move. Can you wiggle your toes?’
She could see him think about it. Concentrate.
His feet moved. Praise be. She wasn’t coping with paraplegia—or worse.
She should be factoring in risks. She should have him on a rigid board with a neck brace in case of spinal injury.
There wasn’t time. Survival meant they had to move.
‘Now your legs,’ she said, and one leg moved. The other shifted a little and then didn’t. She could see pain wash over his face.
‘That’s great,’ she said, even though it wasn’t. ‘We have one good leg and one that’s sore. Now fingers and arms.’
‘I can’t feel ’em.’
‘That’s because you’re cold. Try.’
He tried and they moved.
‘Good. Take a breather now. We have a little time.’ Like five minutes. Waves were already reaching his feet.
He had a slash across his face. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze but it looked like it had bled profusely.
Head injury. He needed X-rays. If he had intracranial bleeding...
Don’t even go there.
Priorities. She had a patient with an injured leg and blood loss and shock. The tide was coming in. There was time for nothing but getting him off the beach.
The sand and sleet were slapping her face, making her gasp. She was having trouble breathing herself.
Think.
Injured leg. She had no time—or sight—to assess it. The slashing sand was blinding.
Splint.
Walking-stick.
She made to rise but his hand