The Weight of Water

A bead of sweat trickled down James Reynolds’s temple, stinging his eye. He couldn’t tell if it was the sun overhead or the nerves twisting inside him. His hand tightened on the rope tying his boat to the dock. Six months had passed since he’d dared set foot on one, let alone held the rope in his calloused hands, one push away from drifting out.

The water glittered beneath him, calm as glass. Once, seas like this had been his sanctuary. As a world-class sailor, James never got seasick. But now, every attempt to return to the ocean left his stomach churning, his chest compressed as if by invisible hands. His courage came in waves—small, brief, and never enough.

“Dad?”

James glanced down at his son. Elijah’s brown hair curled out from beneath his lifejacket, his legs swinging impatiently. “What’s the holdup?” the boy asked.

James swallowed. “I think we’ll come back another time, buddy. I heard some other guys say a storm might be rolling in.”

Elijah frowned, tugging at the straps. “There are no other guys here,” he mumbled.

Another lie. James had told plenty since the fire. Since Amelia.

He herded Elijah toward the truck. They’d only made it a block before a couple stopped in their tracks.

“James Reynolds?” the man gasped. “I’m a huge fan—can I get a picture?”

James offered a brittle smile. The marina manager hurried over, apologizing for the intrusion, but James was already ushering Elijah to the car. His son’s eyes burned into him as he buckled the seatbelt.

“Why didn’t you take a picture, Dad?”

“Because if he wants one, he can find me online.”

James started the truck. In the rearview mirror, Elijah’s profile caught the light, his features almost a mirror of his mother’s. The memory came back sharp and hot, like fire.

---

The sea lay glass-flat, a sheet of molten blue stretching to the horizon. Sunlight glinted off the slow swell, each wave breaking into silver before sliding back into itself. Amelia leaned against the bow rail, eyes closed, wind teasing strands of hair across her cheeks, the salt mist cooling her sun-warm skin.

Sixty miles off the Caribbean coast, the boat drifted without a sound. For once, no crowds, no cameras—just them. Five years married. Five years of James always being gone. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have him close.

Behind her, James sprawled across the deck, arm thrown over his eyes. “Just one more day,” he muttered, voice rough from sun and salt.

Amelia straightened sharply, a jolt of panic. “Wait—who’s driving the boat?”

James cracked a grin. “Didn’t you see? Elijah took the wheel.”

Her heart leapt, then sank as she caught the joke. She smacked his shoulder, harder than she meant to.

“Don’t do that!”

James’s laugh was low, familiar. “Relax. We’re anchored. Ten minutes now. He’s asleep in the back.”

Amelia exhaled, hand pressed to her chest. She turned enough to glimpse his face—serene, distant, staring at the horizon as the boat rocked with the tide.

“Why’d we stop?” she asked, fingers sliding into his.

He lifted her hand, brushed her knuckles with a kiss. “Our last day out. Wanted the perfect spot to watch the sunset with you.”

Her expression softened. She slid closer until her head rested on his shoulder. “I guess I can forgive the scare,” she murmured.

He gave a small grunt. “Still don’t like this boat.”

“I know.” She smiled. “You’ve been complaining since we left port.”

He didn’t deny it. He hated motorboats—too bulky, too slow. She, secretly, loved the space.

Amelia reached up, cupping his face until he turned to her. His eyes caught the dying light, warm and full.

“You’re going to miss the sunset,” he said.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Her mouth found his in a kiss that burned longer than a peck, a kiss deep enough to imprint memory into muscle. For a moment, the world was only them.

She pulled away, cheeks flushed. “I’ll freshen up.”

As she crossed the deck, she paused over their sleeping son. The boy was curled beneath a blanket, lips parted in dreams. She brushed a kiss to his forehead, then slipped below deck.

James stayed where he was, at the stern. The sky was a blaze of orange melting into indigo. The sea rocked him gently, steady as a heartbeat. Everything he wanted.

Then the heartbeat stopped.

A low churning. A muffled boom. The boat trembled beneath him.

“Amelia?”

James snapped upright. Smoke curled from below deck, then flame—bright, unnatural orange—rushed skyward. Screams echoed up through the companionway.

He ran. A wall of fire seared the stairs, heat blistering his skin.

“Amelia!” His voice ripped from his throat. No answer.

He tried again, coughing as smoke clawed his lungs. “Ame—!”

Another muffled cry—faint, breaking. He strained to hear.

“Sa…Elij…”

He understood before the last syllable. “Save…Elijah…”

His scream broke into sobs. He stepped forward—one more step would mean never stepping back. If he burned here, Elijah would be alone.

James spun, lunged across the deck. “Elijah!”

Silence.

He found the boy crouched in the far corner, tiny shadow against the flames. Relief nearly knocked him to his knees. “Buddy. Thank God.” He gathered him close.

“Where’s Mom?” Elijah’s voice was small, trembling.

James’s throat locked. “We have to jump. Here—lifejacket.”

“Where’s Mom?” the boy asked again, louder.

James fumbled for the life preserver, sobbing now. “I’m sorry. We have to jump.”

One last glance at the inferno. Then he lifted his son, clutched him tight, and leapt.

Cold water swallowed them whole. James’s scream became bubbles, streaming past his face. He wanted to inhale the sea, let it fill him, drag him down where Amelia had gone. But Elijah’s small hands clung to his neck.

They surfaced. The burning boat loomed like a funeral pyre.

“Where’s Mom?” Elijah whispered again.

James stroked his wet hair, tears lost to salt water. “It’s going to be okay, buddy. It’s all going to be okay.”

---

Jubilee Bay prided itself on small-town charm, but for James, even its quiet streets pressed in. He kept busy teaching at the sailing school—onshore only. He told himself it was enough, though every salty breeze felt like the ocean calling his name.

“You’ll get there,” his father told him one night, handing him a beer on the porch. Evan had moved south after Amelia’s death. They had never been close, but grief had a way of stitching old wounds.

“I don’t know, Dad,” James admitted. “Every time I get near the water, it feels like drowning.”

Evan studied him for a moment. “Then teach from the shore. One day, you’ll step back in. Not because you have to, but because you’ll want to.”

James wasn’t sure. Anxiety still gripped him every time he neared the pier. But he held onto the thought. One day.

---

It was Elijah who spotted it first at a crisp 4:08 a.m.

“Dad! Jubilee!”

James looked out his window. In the half-light of dawn, fish shimmered near the surface, a living tide rushing toward the shore. Elijah tore out of the house barefoot, shouting the town’s call.

“Jubilee!”

James followed, his heart hammering as they reached the pier. People laughed and shouted, scooping fish with buckets. Elijah leaned over the edge, pointing at the spectacle.

“Come on, Dad! Let’s get closer!”

James froze at the dock’s edge. His palms were damp, his chest heavy. The memory of smoke and fire pressed in. His knees wanted to buckle, to turn him back.

But then Elijah turned, eyes wide with wonder, needing him there. And James remembered Amelia’s final words—Save Elijah.

His breath shook. His fear swelled. But this time, he did not run. He set one foot on the dock, then the other. The wood creaked, swaying gently with the tide. The panic rose—but so did something else. A flicker of strength, fragile yet steady.

Elijah reached out his hand. James took it. Together, they stepped forward, father and son, the bay alive beneath them.

The waves no longer felt like a threat, but like an opportunity.