The lifeguard boat ran with the wind after making the turn to round the end of the San Clemente Pier, the only thing standing between the fast moving craft and the harbor opening into Dana Point’s yacht basin. The helicopters, Coast Guard boats and the yacht itself, were left in the lifeguard boat’s wake, as if disappearing into a misty night, although it was full daylight.

The harbor entrance was empty of all boats of any kind, even the tall thick triangular seawalls were devoid of humanity. The fishermen usually lining them with poles sticking out too far to be safe or comfortable and lines leading down into the normally calm water were nowhere to be seen. The lifeguard dock was part of one of the main docks set deep inside the ornate and very expensive complex. It took no time at all for the guards to pull the boat in, tie it up and then stand on the dock with outstretched arms to assist Gularte and I in getting ashore. Elwell moved off the boat more like a well-coordinated ballet dancer than a big muscled and thick-bodied swimmer. A bright orange yellow San Clemente lifeguard Jeep sat waiting only a couple of yards from where Elwell, Gularte and I ended up standing. Elwell looked every bit the ideal picture of a lifeguard, even his longish hair in perfect order while Gularte and I looked like waifs from an old Saturday morning Our Gang segment.
Bob climbed into the passenger seat of the vehicle.

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