"Swim. There's no way to go around or over the top."
"I guess, but it's going to be cold."
"It will be."
I passed the word back to Ky and Terry, instructing them to ease into the water—no dives or going under, which would douse their lights—and then to dog-paddle across. When I got across I would throw a rope back to Sid, then Terry would come up to where Sid was, take the other end and Sid would push off. We'd hold the rope between us just above his head, so if he got a cramp or slipped he could just grab on. When Sid was across, Terry would come on, Ky moving up to hold the end of the rope.
"What about Ky? Who holds for him?"
"I'll tie a sling for him. If he needs help we'll haul him in like a fish."
I chimneyed down into the crack, getting as close to the water as I could, then pushed off like a frog. The water was breathtakingly cold. When I crawled out on the far side, it was a few minutes before I could talk or throw the rope. When Sid hit the water he screamed with surprise and pain. Terry came with less commotion than any of us. Ky, impatient, jumped too soon, from too high, and went under. His light went out instantly. He yelled when he came up, treading water.
"You're O.K. You want a pull?"
"I don't need the rope."
Standing together on the first ledge, we tried to fix his light. It was hard to see, because now we were giving off steam in clouds, and the shakes made it hard to unscrew and refuel the lamp.