could save him.
There was also food, and he said aloud, “Ah, granola bars. Ten of ’em. I’ll catch fish and eat one granola bar a day. Ugh.” Then his fingers caressed the quart bottle of distilled water he used for his watercolors. He was thirsty already. Two swallows a day, and chew some raw fish for extra moisture. Hey, I’m gonna make it.
He was tempted to discard his paints, brushes, pencils, and sketch pad. But his artist’s tools meant too much, and he stuffed them back into the waterproof bag. He still had his wallet, his passport, and the money from his first watercolor sale. He pulled the soggy billfold out of his shorts and packed it away with the rest.
The day’s last minutes of sun still gave a radiant warmth. He knew in the nights to come he’d suffer from the cold, and with daylight he would curse the endless, searing, body-blistering heat, but for now the sun was a comfort.
“I’ll make it!” he screamed at the fiery red ball as it touched the western horizon. “And I’ll see you in hell, Gandara!”
He began paddling. One hundred strokes, then a two-minute rest. He alternated between paddling prone and on his knees. He stroked on and on until total darkness and a million times a million stars shone overhead. The physical effort kept him sane and partly stilled the fear that surged in his guts. He was dancing on the edge of panic. One hundred strokes. Rest. Look at the stars. Ask how they got there. Then one hundred more. When the Southern Cross appeared he stopped and pulled on his tightly woven nylon wind shirt. Next he reached for the safety leash that surfers use to connect themselves to their boards. His was ten feet long, incredibly strong, and elastic. He had gone over the falls many times in twenty-foot waves and had seen the leash stretch to double its length. Each end had a loop of adhesive Velcro. The loops allowed one end of the urethane cord to be secured to a ring in the tail of the board. The other end was strapped around an ankle. He fixed the leash to the board and his leg. No matter what happened during the night he would stay connected. Without the board, he was dead.
Billy leaned forward and lay on the surfboard. Keeping movement to a minimum, he cradled his arms around the getaway bag and began taking deep, relaxing breaths. His body unconsciously adjusted to the tipping and tilting of the board, and the water that sloshed over his elbows and feet. In less than a minute he fell into a fitful sleep.
He awoke at dawn and sensed that something off to his left was watching him. He sat up, stiff and sore, and moved his aching shoulders. His eyes roved across the sea. Nothing was out there except the tint of dawn rising in the east. Not a cloud in sight. No chance of a squall to drench him with rain. Not even a bird. He thought, One sip of water now, then I’ll try fishing.
Billy carefully broke the plastic bottle’s seal and unscrewed the cap. Taking great care not to spill a drop, he put the lid into a pocket. To lose the cap, and not be able to contain the quart of water, would be a disaster. He brought the bottle to his lips, and fighting to keep from draining it all, filled his mouth. He rinsed the liquid around, savoring it, and then slowly swallowed. He carefully replaced the cap and stowed it back in the bag. Next, he tied a wriggly plastic trolling lure, with its sharp barbed hook, to a length of fishing line and let it out a hundred feet. He secured the line to the loop at the end of the surfboard leash, figuring if he hooked a big fish the elastic cord would take the shock. Next he cut off two feet of nylon line, made a lanyard for his Swiss Army knife, and hung it around his neck. If he did catch a fish, he would have to kill it quickly or chance being thrown off his board. If the fish was really big, he’d have to cut the line or be yanked off his surfboard. That was his big fear. Losing his board meant it would all be over. He began paddling again and
There was also food, and he said aloud, “Ah, granola bars. Ten of ’em. I’ll catch fish and eat one granola bar a day. Ugh.” Then his fingers caressed the quart bottle of distilled water he used for his watercolors. He was thirsty already. Two swallows a day, and chew some raw fish for extra moisture. Hey, I’m gonna make it.
He was tempted to discard his paints, brushes, pencils, and sketch pad. But his artist’s tools meant too much, and he stuffed them back into the waterproof bag. He still had his wallet, his passport, and the money from his first watercolor sale. He pulled the soggy billfold out of his shorts and packed it away with the rest.
The day’s last minutes of sun still gave a radiant warmth. He knew in the nights to come he’d suffer from the cold, and with daylight he would curse the endless, searing, body-blistering heat, but for now the sun was a comfort.
“I’ll make it!” he screamed at the fiery red ball as it touched the western horizon. “And I’ll see you in hell, Gandara!”
He began paddling. One hundred strokes, then a two-minute rest. He alternated between paddling prone and on his knees. He stroked on and on until total darkness and a million times a million stars shone overhead. The physical effort kept him sane and partly stilled the fear that surged in his guts. He was dancing on the edge of panic. One hundred strokes. Rest. Look at the stars. Ask how they got there. Then one hundred more. When the Southern Cross appeared he stopped and pulled on his tightly woven nylon wind shirt. Next he reached for the safety leash that surfers use to connect themselves to their boards. His was ten feet long, incredibly strong, and elastic. He had gone over the falls many times in twenty-foot waves and had seen the leash stretch to double its length. Each end had a loop of adhesive Velcro. The loops allowed one end of the urethane cord to be secured to a ring in the tail of the board. The other end was strapped around an ankle. He fixed the leash to the board and his leg. No matter what happened during the night he would stay connected. Without the board, he was dead.
Billy leaned forward and lay on the surfboard. Keeping movement to a minimum, he cradled his arms around the getaway bag and began taking deep, relaxing breaths. His body unconsciously adjusted to the tipping and tilting of the board, and the water that sloshed over his elbows and feet. In less than a minute he fell into a fitful sleep.
He awoke at dawn and sensed that something off to his left was watching him. He sat up, stiff and sore, and moved his aching shoulders. His eyes roved across the sea. Nothing was out there except the tint of dawn rising in the east. Not a cloud in sight. No chance of a squall to drench him with rain. Not even a bird. He thought, One sip of water now, then I’ll try fishing.
Billy carefully broke the plastic bottle’s seal and unscrewed the cap. Taking great care not to spill a drop, he put the lid into a pocket. To lose the cap, and not be able to contain the quart of water, would be a disaster. He brought the bottle to his lips, and fighting to keep from draining it all, filled his mouth. He rinsed the liquid around, savoring it, and then slowly swallowed. He carefully replaced the cap and stowed it back in the bag. Next, he tied a wriggly plastic trolling lure, with its sharp barbed hook, to a length of fishing line and let it out a hundred feet. He secured the line to the loop at the end of the surfboard leash, figuring if he hooked a big fish the elastic cord would take the shock. Next he cut off two feet of nylon line, made a lanyard for his Swiss Army knife, and hung it around his neck. If he did catch a fish, he would have to kill it quickly or chance being thrown off his board. If the fish was really big, he’d have to cut the line or be yanked off his surfboard. That was his big fear. Losing his board meant it would all be over. He began paddling again and
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