There was the hole. It gaped in a sunny spot below the rocky overhang for jumping. It was relatively small, not made for lap swimming. Only 15 feet across at its longest side and its deepest part below the overhang. Sara herself had only touched bottom once, with her big toe extending as far below as she could stretch it. The water temperature just below the surface was always dramatically cooler than the top. This gave your whole body confusing and exciting sensations, just adding to the exhilaration.

She was now bare to her turquoise one-piece suit. Her bare feet were already strong from a long season of wearing socks and shoes, but she refused to leave the sandals on. She hated the squish of wet sandals. And her feet would just slide through the open toes anyway.

Getting to the top of the overhang involved weaving through mountain laurel branches and pressing her weight into the rock to avoid toppling backwards. By the time she found her footing at the top, in a position not quite standing, not quite sitting against a giant stone slab, she’d managed to slap one foot against a rock so hard that it bled. She caught her breath and observed the small seep of blood down to her toes.