I awoke in unfamiliar surroundings, the first morning of our boys’ trip with Dad. Seeing dark cedar trees outside the cabin’s bare windows, silhouetted in the light of dawn, made me eager to explore. I crawled out of bed and over to my sleeping brother, Christopher. He had recently turned sixteen, two years older than me, and several inches taller than I was in those days. When I told him that I wanted to walk to the water, he groaned about not sleeping well but said he wanted to go.

Our dog, Jessy, spun in circles, dragging her leash around as I put on my shoes. While Chris dressed, I grabbed my fleece jacket and the empty tackle box I’d stashed in my duffle.

Outside, the dew on the tall grass soaked my sneakers, and the smell of cedar, pine, and earth was strong. We followed the trail to the shore––a tunnel of branches, needles, and leaves. Beads of water sparkled, dangling from above––crystals on spiderweb chandeliers–– some splatting on our heads, while holes, exposed roots, and rocks slowed our pace. I marveled at the massive splintered stumps we passed, each in a different stage of decay.

Thin columns of light barely pierced through the low-hanging cloud cover and towering evergreens. Our breath blew vaporous clouds that mingled with the shroud of mist and chill. I jokingly pretended to smoke, but Chris didn’t even smile.

At the shore, the view widened. The ocean had receded with the tide. Trees clinging to the exposed rocky banks showed off their lowest branches like skirts––hemlines confirming where high tide would reclaim the beach in a few hours.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, and wiggled my toes in the icy-cold brown sand. I tasted salt and iodine in the air. Bright yellow and orange algae; thick strands of waxy brown seaweed; pink, gooey jellyfish; and the black shells of barnacles left behind by the water’s retreat fascinated me. I picked up a stick and poked at them, flipping some over.

Jessy jumped around, trying to take the stick from my hand, so I threw it for her. She soon lost interest in the stick, preferring to splash in the shallows, barking and biting at the bits of foam that floated past.

Chris jogged to the water’s edge and picked up a few stones, which he tried to skip across the flat water. Most sunk with a plunk. Using my wrist, and not throwing too hard, I did much better. But I held off from saying anything––he being older than me and all.

I walked along the water’s edge, searching for colorful shells to give to Elise, a girl I liked, and found a tide pool rich with stranded sea critters. “Hey, Chris,” I called, “Come look. Starfish!”

“That’s what they used to call them,” he said, joining me. “Now, they’re called sea stars because they aren’t really fish.”

“Guess the blue ones are boys and the pink ones are girls.”

“They don’t have sexes. They reproduce without it.”

“That would make things dull.” I expected Christopher to laugh, or at least return my smile. Instead, he looked about to cry. “You okay?” He shook his head and walked away.

I caught up but said nothing. As we walked, I collected stuff I put in my tackle box––a calcified turquoise curl of snail poop, some pink shells, and several banded rocks, smoothed and polished by the sand. At the farthest end of the beach, the woods followed the top of a rocky point jutting into the water. We sat on a giant log nearby, the dampness quickly soaking through to my underwear.

Jessy stretched out at our feet while I stared at the water, watching the ripples for evidence of the tide’s reverse. When I turned to Christopher, I saw him crying, and put my hand on his shoulder. His body grew rigid. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

He shifted away, snorting and wiping tears from his face with his palms. “Roland,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

That came as no surprise. We all missed Roland. It had only been a few weeks since the accident, and Roland and Chris had always been inseparable, best buddies since they’d started riding bicycles without training wheels.

Roland and Tom, another boy from their class, had gone sailing. Roland fell in the water and drowned, and Tom died trying to save him. Christopher was supposed to go on that trip, not Tom, but when he came down with a cold, Mom didn’t want him to.

“I don’t understand why those guys weren’t wearing life vests,” I said. “Once a down jacket gets wet, it weighs a ton.”

Except for the occasional squawking seagulls, the water lapping at the shore was the only sound. We sat without talking. When the breeze picked up, I shivered in my damp shorts. Clouds sealed off the sky, dimming the light and threatening rain. I started to suggest we go back to the cabin when Christopher turned to me. “If I’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened. I deserted him.”

“But you were sick.”

“No, I wasn’t. I faked it. I didn’t want to go.”

“Why? You love sailing.”

He stared me in the eye. “The truth?”

I nodded.

“Promise you won’t say anything to anyone.”

Again, I nodded.

“About two weeks before, Roland told me he loved me. He asked if he could kiss me. I cursed him and accused him of fooling me all these years.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he never tried to fool me, that he’d kept his feelings to himself. He said he had decided to be honest.” Chris buried his face in his hands. “Why did he think I’d be okay with that?”

“But you two were still friends, right?” I asked. “I mean, you can’t blame him for trying.”

Christopher wailed, his face blotchy red, his nose running. “I told him I never wanted to see him again.” He took a shaky breath. “I know why he didn’t wear a life vest.”

I sat, stunned. Our silence stretched beyond the lone gull skimming back and forth above the gray ocean. We didn’t even move when a soft drizzle turned to rain, and the day grew colder.