“Help!” a small voice cried.
I pressed 911. “Woman overboard at Mallory Square!” I yelled, and then stuffed the phone in my sweater pocket.
I ran up to the edge of the water. “Toby, is that you?”
“Help!” she cried again. “I can’t swim.” She swatted at the water, sank briefly, then burst to the surface again, sputtering. The harder she struggled, the more quickly the current pulled her away from the dock.
I glanced around, shouting for assistance. But no one appeared. And there was no lifesaving ring, nor even a long stick that I might have used to drag her to safety.
“Lorenzo! Tony!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my hands cupped into a megaphone, first in the direction of the tarot table, then toward the spot where I’d noticed the gathering of homeless men. “The cops are coming—tell them we’re over here. My friend is in trouble!”
I couldn’t wait to see whether either of them heard me. So I shucked off my sandals, dropped my cell phone and pack on top of them, and my sweater on top of that. I had no idea how deep the water was or what obstacles might lurk underneath. But I took a deep breath and pushed off the pier into a shallow dive.
If my mouth hadn’t been full of salt water, I would have screamed out at the shock of cold. Not cold like the ocean in New Jersey in January, but still unpleasantly chilly. I surfaced, struggling to push away a disgusting, slimy hunk of seaweed, and dog-paddled in place, looking for Toby. Already the current was pulling me away from the pier.
Toby splashed frantically a few yards from me. I breaststroked over. She slapped at the water, gasping and choking, and grabbed onto my head.
I frog-kicked, trying to make a little space between us. She held on tighter, now with a death grip on my hair. Her weight pushed me under and I had to fight to get back to the surface and breathe.
“Toby,” I sputtered, my adrenaline surging, mouth full of salt water, “I’m trying to help. But you have to let go.”
“I can’t swim,” she shrieked, and floundered until she sank a second time, pulling me down with her. I bobbed to the surface, panicked at the idea of her fastened to me like a barnacle as the current swept us away. A fact from the lifeguarding class that I’d flunked flashed through my brain: To break the stranglehold of a panicked victim, drop down low into the water and then approach again from behind.
If I didn’t try something, we would both drown. So I kicked hard and shot lower into the water. Flailing madly to stay at the surface, Toby let go of my hair. Then I surged up on her far side. Slinging one arm across her chest, I started an awkward sidestroke toward the extension of the pier that hosted cruise ships during the city’s three-boat days. Toward the closest way out—a slippery-looking ladder attached to the concrete. She continued to flop and thrash like a hooked marlin as I kicked against the current. Finally, we reached the ladder; I grabbed her hand and wrapped it around the rusty metal. I was exhausted and breathless. And frightened and cold.
“You’re okay,” I said, shaking the water and some green glop out of my eyes. “The cops will be here soon.”
She reached for the bottom rung with her other hand, sucking in great gulps of air. Her hair, plastered to her scalp, was covered with an oily sheen—something cruise-ship related I was sure—and some strands of brown sea grass. And her eyes looked wild.
My friend Tony’s worried, whiskered face appeared thirty feet away, at the top of the ladder attached to the main pier. “Lorenzo’s gone to show the cops the way. See if you can swim over here and grab my hand. They’ve got the gates locked so I can’t get over to you.” He dropped his battered cowboy hat on the cement, wiggled prone, and reached out for us. But Toby wouldn’t let go of the rung she was gripping and I was afraid to leave her there alone. In fact I was afraid to try fighting the current again myself.
The welcome sound of a siren split the air. Once it bleated to a stop, we could see the lights of emergency vehicles flashing off the clouds. Then thin beams of flashlights pierced the darkness.
“Over here!” Tony shouted. “Over here!”
When he’d gotten the attention of the officers, he melted away into the shadows. He’d taken a forced march to the police department last week on charges of disturbing the peace—he would not be eager to be seen by the cops, however positive the circumstances this time.
After what felt like an hour, two policemen approached the edge of the pier, with Lorenzo in his white shirt, black tie, and black vest decorated with the moon and stars right behind them. All three struggled over the fence and then ran across the dock to our ladder. The smaller cop, a wiry guy with thinning blond hair, descended the ladder until he was wet to his knees.