"A Hand in the Water"

Aug. 2, 1993

I'm a simple person, and I like simple things. Like my little chalet out near Brigus, a town on the east coast of Newfoundland. Well, it isn't really a chalet, but that's what I call it. Impresses all my friends back home in Toronto.

It's quiet up there, just you, the hills, and the water. Or, at least, it's quiet most of the time. Last August 2nd, however, it was not.

I was having a good time up there, wandering in the hills and meeting the little fox cub I'd made friends with, name of Pup. Got some good pictures of him. At any rate, I was heading back home for a nice, light dinner, when I heard a faint shout over in the direction of the beach. It sounded like someone was calling for help.

I started running over in that direction; when someone calls for help, especially around here near the water, you don't wait.

I must have reached the beach a minute or two later, since I had been very close to it when I'd heard the shout. I scrambled down the rocks and raced across the stones of the beach to the edge of the water, and looked out.

At the far end of the row of large rocks, about 100 metres from where I was standing, there was a hand waving up from the water--desperately, it seemed to me. The first thing I thought, even while I was kicking off my shoes and dashing in, was, <Oh, great! Some fool went out along the rocks for a picnic lunch and got caught by the tide!>

The water near the beach had been nicely warmed by the morning sun and the warmth of the air, but as I went farther, it started to get much colder. As soon as the water reached my waist, I dove in, ignoring the sudden shock of what felt like ice water, and started swimming, helped by the leaving tide.

It took me about two minutes to reach the spot where I'd seen the hand, and by the time I got there, there was no one in sight. I looked all over, even diving to look at the bottom, getting colder by the minute. The only problem was, I couldn't see anything except the rocks, the water, and the beach. No picnic baskets, no bodies, no hands.

Finally I gave up and started back to the beach, fighting the tide and the current every inch of the way. The fact that I was shivering, or trying to, didn't exactly help, either. Once I reached shallow water, I walked the rest of the way. I pulled my shoes back on, and, squoshing and dripping, headed back to my chalet.

After a quick, hot bath, I slipped into dry clothes and headed to my study, which had a large collection of books and stories about Brigus and the surrounding area, purely for my own amusement and information. One of them was open on my desk; I'd been reading it last night before bed. I picked it up and glanced through it absently, and then put it down slowly and started to shake.

Brigus and area has tons of stories and legends, from the ones about ships lost at sea to the ones about Lightning Bolt Hill. But before that night, I'd never heard about the teenage boy who had drowned, 50 years ago, on August 2nd, because the tide was going out and he wasn't a strong swimmer. The last thing that people saw of him was his hand, waving desperately.

I don't know if it was real, or if I did read the story the night before, and, frankly, I don't care. I don't believe in ghosts.

But I'm staying in today, just in case.

I hope that you enjoyed A Hand in the Water. Please send me any comments, suggestions, and/or constructive criticism you might have, in order to help me improve both A Hand in the Water and my other stories.

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Last modified June 29, 1997.
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Trudy A. Goold/tag@myna.com