𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳
Whether it manifested as a fleeting specter, casting its ephemeral shadow across the girl's dreams, awakening her on that least likely of mornings, remained forever veiled, destined to...
Linda emerged from the water, gasping for breath. Her chest heaved with the aftermath, and droplets of seawater clung to her glistening skin. She staggered ashore, legs feeling like jelly, with the remnants of the ocean stuck in her lungs and ears. In an attempt to dislodge the persistent water trapped within she instinctively tilted her head to the side and banged the heel of her hand against her ear. With a sharp exhale, she collapsed onto the blanket. She unfurled a pareo and draped it over her face to avoid looking into the eyes of people whom might have witnessed her desperate act. She closed her eyes for a moment and found herself half awake and half asleep.
She was in the vast expanse of the open sea when her white ocean liner sank. When stranded at sea, she managed to catch a fish and extract their juices to drink. She sponged up morning dew off her life raft's rubberized deck. Adrift on a sailboat, she collected rainwater using the canvas. But if the sails were dirty, the decks crusted with salt, any water she obtained would be worthless. She had to keep the decks clean, the sails rinsed, she had to be ready.
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Linda slowly stirred, feeling the soft embrace of the beach blanket beneath her. As she began to regain consciousness, she realized her linen pareo was still draped over her face. She removed the fabric, yet it was dark. Only the stars kept shining, like diamonds scattered on velvet. She must have dozed off for a good hour.
Linda sat up and glanced around. The party went on at its best. People grilled seafood, guys with shell necklaces played congas and others were dancing by the bonfire. She lied again eventually and stared at the celestial canopy.
She tried to remember as much as she could from a dream; the grim means to survive disaster at sea.
One day she came across a survival book in the National Library of Russia. Thriving Against the Odds. Every religion needs its bible, and it was hers. You make fishhooks from any kind of bent metal, create a fishing line using the thread from your clothing, and bait the hook with fragments of fish or dead fellow passengers, or even a strip of your own flesh if necessary. She forced herself to envision the process, taking the sharp edge of a discarded beer can that Izzy had left behind and piercing her thigh. The pain was so intense that she struggled to remain conscious, but she knew she had to finish the job. Passing out was pointless; the wound would just heal, and she'd have to do it all over again. Thus, she persevered until she held the yellow worm in her hand, blood-stained and warm.
Panic was the worst. When you panicked, potential solutions became powerless. Subsequently, despair set in. A man from Japan, adrift for four days in a boat, panicked and took his own life, only to be discovered twenty minutes later. A sailor from Soochow endured 116 days on a life raft before being located. The uncertainty of when rescue might arrive was always present.
Her mother wouldn't panic, rip out the spear, and die of blood loss. Linda knew she could do the right thing- allow the maggots to cleanse the wound before extracting the spear in five days or a week. She would even write a poem about it. But Linda could also see her making a grave error, a lapse in judgment. She pictured them adrift, far from shipping lanes for ten days, diligently conserving resources by pressing fish juice and meticulously collecting every drop of water from the pristine morning deck, when suddenly she determined seawater wasn't undrinkable after all. Linda saw her going swimming among sharks.
