When her partner calls her early Saturday morning to report a body in La Jolla Cove, rescue diver Kristin Castaño's only worry is losing sleep. Once she's in the water all that changes.
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I’m not even sure where to start. I’m good at my job. Real good. It’s reports I can’t handle. Charlay usually does our reports, but she’s on vacation, so I get the honor of reporting the body.
Or lack of body.
But I’ve no clue where to begin.
Saturday morning, I woke up bleary-eyed to the phone ringing like a fire alarm during mass. Groggy, I hit the speaker phone button. “’Sup?”
“We’ve got a body at La Jolla cove,” Charlay said in the no-nonsense tone of a woman who wakes at four every morning for a brisk five-mile run. “Bring your gear.”
Too many years of Catholic school had stripped me of the ability to swear, but I tried. “Pink fluffy elephants!”
I hung up, rolled off of my mattress, skimmed out of my black tank and panties, and pulled on my musty black swimsuit. Black is my color of choice for everything; it’s hard to stain. I scraped my hair back into a tight ponytail and pulled my beat up sweats on. They still smelled like smoke from the bonfire two weekends ago.
At some point I really needed to wash my clothes.