by S.A. Bodeen
And for the time being, at least, it was our only food.
Was I already going crazy from the sun and the thirst? Was this how long it had taken the survivors of the Indianapolis to lose it?
Get a grip, Robie. Get a grip.
I shoved the Skittles back in the ditty bag and tossed it to the other side of the raft.
My chin quivered and my lips curled as a guttural wail escaped between them.
Sobs bubbled up, great gulping, gasping sobs that racked my whole body, complete with tears that blurred my vision so that my whole reality was messed up. And so I screamed, shouting at the sky, “I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to be here!”
I want to be anywhere but here.
twenty-five
No longer in the raft, no longer fifteen, no longer in command of my world, I was but five. A little kid of five and I’d awoken from a heinous nightmare and wanted my mother, wanted her to take away everything that was bad.
With a fist on either side of my face, I scrunched my eyes shut. “Mommy! Where are you? Where are you?”
Rocking back and forth, I struggled to get the words out amidst the sobs and the gasps and the shudders.
“Mommy! I want you!” I wanted her to answer me. “I need you!”
“Just come and get me!” I said it over and over, until the words turned quiet, a desperate pleading. “Just come and get me. Please. Mommy. Please.”
My voice cracked on the last “Come and get me … Mommy…”
And then I could only think it.
Mommy. Please come get me.
But she didn’t.
Someone please tell me something worse.
And that’s when I knew no one could tell me something worse. Because there wasn’t anything.
I was still alone. In a raft. At sea.
twenty-six
Me. It was all on me. Everything was all on me.
As much as I hoped for it, my mom was not coming to get me. I was the only help I was getting. And I needed to chill out before I lost it completely.
The Skittles rose in my throat and I swallowed, forcing them to stay down. No way was I throwing up food, the only food there was.
Get a grip. I have to get a grip. Think, Robie. You can do this. Do what you need to do to make it through this. Do what you need to do.
I considered what I needed to do.
You have only yourself to rely on. But you know a lot. A lot. You live on an island, which is basically just a bigger raft that doesn’t move. You’ve picked up so much information. You know enough to survive this, you know you do.
You, on your own, are strong enough to survive.
I took a deep breath, which held just a trace of lingering shudder, and let it out.
I would do this. I would be my own resource. I would get through this whichever way I could.
Starting immediately, I would do what was necessary to stay hopeful.
To believe I would survive.
Something grabbed my hand and I screamed.
twenty-seven
“It’s me.” Max let go and I turned toward him.
“You’re back!” I almost told him I thought he was gone forever, but didn’t see what good that would do. Especially when he looked worse than death. A sense of relief rushed over me.
“How long have I been out?” He held a hand to his head.
That was an easy answer. “A long time.”
The line was gone. So was his life jacket.
He held on to the raft and pulled himself upright. He stuck a hand in the raft. “It’s really leaking.”
I nodded, feeling so guilty. “I’m so sorry I put you in the water. I just thought…”
“You weigh less. Together, we’d sink.”
“Yeah.” I thought for sure he’d be pissed about being in the water, and was glad that he agreed it was the smart thing to do. I was glad he was back, calm and rational, just in time, just when I was in danger of losing it.
He said, “We need to fix it.”
I knew that, I did. “How?”
He pointed to a pocket in the raft. “There should be a patch kit in there. But we need to empty the raft first. Then find the leak.”
I felt in the pocket and pulled out a small pouch. Inside I found a little tube of sealant, some small patches of the same rubber as the raft, and a small sheet of instructions. Scanning them, I figured out what I needed to do.
“We need to tie those down,” Max said, pointing to the Coastal Commander and the bailer. Then he pointed at his ditty bag. “Put that around your wrist.”
I just sat there. It was his bag. If something happened, if, heaven forbid, we got split up, it was his bag. It should stay with him.
He said, “Do it.”
Taking his bag, I slipped the bungee cord around my wrist.
I knew what he’d say next, but my heart still sunk when I heard the words.
“Now you need to get out.”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m right here. I won’t let anything happen. You need to get out so we can flip this over and fix it.”
Taking a deep breath, I put my foot over the side and started to slide out of the raft and into the water. But then I locked my elbows on the edge, refusing to go farther. My weight on the side of the empty raft made it flip over, trapping me underneath.
I screamed and grabbed for the raft, pushing it up. “Get it off! Get it off!” Even though, for the moment, I could breathe just fine within the pocket of air between me and the capsized raft, the feeling of my legs just hanging there, treading, was more than I could take. “Get it off me!” I screamed. I couldn’t stand it anymore and didn’t wait for Max. Instead, I shoved up with all my strength, throwing the raft off me.
As I did, the ditty bag attached to my arm slipped off. I grabbed for it, catching it by the bottom. Red and green and purple and yellow and orange dots rained down around me, some pelting me.
Skittles.
“No!” I scrambled, splashing as I tried to grab them, but they were everywhere, sinking. How could I have forgotten to close the bag?
In a frenzy, I scooped water and managed to get a few. Two yellow, a green, and a purple. I dropped them back in the ditty bag and searched for more.
Nothing.
They had sunk.
Holding on to the raft with one hand, slapping at the water with the other, I blubbered, as part of me cursed the carelessness that had just lost us all the food we had, and another part was just pissed that I hadn’t eaten them all when I had the chance.
Sniffling, I wiped my nose, nearly jumping out of my skin at the sudden streak of pain. Touching it again, gently, my piercing was hot to the touch and hurt like hell. Great.
Max said nothing. Nothing about the bag or the Skittles. Instead, he stated exactly what I was thinking, the one thing that mattered so much more than the stupid candy. “I hope the patch kit is still in there.”
twenty-eight
Inhaling a shudder, I looked inside the ditty bag, hoping to hell I hadn’t lost the patch kit. I sighed with relief when I saw it.
I knew I needed to patch the raft. My hands shook as I fought a rising panic, trying not to think about what might be in the water. Anything could sneak up on me.
Hurt me.
Eat me.
I’d read that many victims of shark attacks didn’t even feel the actual bite. They just had the sensation of something bumping them. Only after they got out of the water, if they survived, did they see the holes in their wetsuits, and the bite marks on their skin.
Because most sharks took a bite of humans and didn’t much care for the taste.
Most sharks.
Tigers didn’t give a crap. Food was food.
I squinted and looked around me. The surface of the ocean was blue, a shiny mirror reflecting the sun.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to find the leak. I thought maybe if I pushed the raft up partway, slid under it, and dripped down water from the bailer, th
en I could see where water came through.
I pulled myself up on one side of the upside-down raft, forcing the other side to tip up. I took the bailer and filled it, then tossed the water up on the back side as I watched underneath for any water dripping. The first ten times, I saw nothing. And I was getting too tired to keep doing it. Then, finally I saw a drip. I quickly filled the bailer again, aiming for the same area. And water came through.
“Max! I found it!”
Once I’d seen the pinprick hole, it appeared so obvious I wondered how I’d missed it before. I got out from under the raft and clambered partway up the bottom of the raft and found the leak. Carefully, I squeezed out some of the glue stuff and stuck the patch on.
“Nice job,” said Max.
Then I slipped back into the water and bobbed there, trying not to lose my mind.
There was an emergency valve, and I blew into that until the raft seemed completely inflated.
I wanted to crawl back inside so bad. Wet and shivering, I wanted out of the water. But Max made me wait a little more, just to be sure the patch held.
“Okay,” he said finally.
I had to shove the raft back over, so I held both hands on one edge. “One … two … three!” I grunted and shoved. The raft went up on its edge and started to flip, just as a gust of wind caught hold, rolling the raft end over end, like a coin on a floor, away from me.
“Noooooooooooooooooooooo!”
We watched helplessly as the raft finally came to a stop, right side up, about fifty yards away.
Max wasn’t strong enough.
I would have to swim for it.
twenty-nine
On my stomach, I started to stroke with my arms as I kicked. But I didn’t like the water coming up in my face, and the ditty bag on my arm hampered my progress. So I flipped over on my back.
Even as a kid, I had done okay on my back.
I breathed out. That was better. Much better. I didn’t feel like anything was dangling.
But I also couldn’t see where I was going, could only guess. I pulled with my arms and kicked for a count of ten, then stopped to turn and see where the raft was.
After doing that three or four times, I realized I wasn’t even gaining on the raft. I might even be losing. So I did the dog paddle, which seemed even slower than my backstroke had been.
Max was close behind me and called out, “You need to swim on your stomach. Just aim for the raft, hold your breath, and go.”
I didn’t want to.
Then he asked exactly what I’d been asking myself: “Do you want to be stuck out here, without the raft?”
No.
I took the ditty bag off my wrist and put the bungee cord around my neck, setting the ditty bag on my back. It was very tight, almost constricting, but at least it would stay put while I swam.
Turning back on my stomach, I took a deep breath, put my head in the water, and did a pathetic front crawl as fast and far as I could until I had to breathe. Then I paused, floated for a bit, just to the edge of panic, and then went again.
I swore if, no, when I got out of this, I would learn to swim properly. How stupid, to not know how to swim. Everyone knew how to swim.
I paused, floated again. Did the raft seem closer?
No. With no weight in it, the raft was cruising along, much faster than I was. If I didn’t hurry, it would be out of reach before I knew it.
I adjusted the ditty bag, held my breath, and stuck my face in the water.
My arms and legs were strong, I could do the strokes. But rhythmic breathing. I could never get the rhythmic breathing part. I’d tried and tried, through swim lesson after swim lesson.
I stopped again and bobbed, too weary to be panicked at the dangling of my limbs.
My breaths were deep and ragged, and my arms and legs burned. The raft was about twenty yards off, so I had gained.
But I had to keep going.
I had to make it to the raft. I had to make it. I had to.
Had to.
I sucked in a breath and went, pulling as hard as I could with my arms as my legs kicked until they threatened to fall off. My breath was used up, it was time to surface. I stuck my head up, tried to swim that way, but it didn’t work. Still, I kept stroking and kicking, as I took another breath and stuck my head in again.
Make it make it make it make it
My lungs were ready to burst but I kept going, my arms and legs burning, until I couldn’t do it anymore. I hoped the raft was there, hoped it was within reach. Because I couldn’t swim anymore.
I was spent.
I stopped, lifting my head to suck in sweet air. I hoped the raft was there, where it had to be. Was it there?
I opened my eyes to see.
thirty
The raft was there, only a few yards away. I flipped to my back and kicked the rest of the way until my head bumped into it. I turned over and held on to the side until I caught my breath. I pulled the ditty bag from around my neck and dropped it into the raft. Then I tried to pull myself in, but my arms were too tired.
So I tried putting one leg over the side.
No luck.
No way was I staying in that water.
I put both my elbows up on the raft and pulled until my chin was there. Then, grunting, I heaved one leg up on the side. I wasn’t there yet, but I wasn’t going to lose the progress I’d made, so I lay there awhile, panting, waiting for my strength to come back.
At last, with a final burst, I pulled myself up and over, and I slid face-first into the raft, where I just lay, recovering. Then I remembered the whole goal of my ordeal. The patch.
Was anything wet?
Other than the water the raft had picked up in its tumble across the waves, there didn’t seem to be any more. As far as I could tell, there were no leaks. Realizing I’d been holding my breath, I let it out.
“One issue solved.”
I sat up. Max was already in the raft and sat opposite of me, where he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
I hoped the patch job was enough to hold both of us.
Wiped out, I rolled over on my back and glanced up at the sky. There wasn’t a cloud anywhere. No rain meant no drinking water. My throat was so dry. And then I remembered my nose. Wincing as I touched the diamond stud with my fingertips, I twisted it slightly and nearly passed out from the pain. My eyes watered and I squeezed them shut, moaning as I tried to stay still, tried to will the pain away. I took deep breaths, like my mom had taught me when I was eight and broke my arm.
I hadn’t put alcohol on the piercing since before leaving AJ’s. Probably close to forty-eight hours. Could it already be infected?
Max wasn’t watching, and still sat there with his eyes closed.
I filled the yellow bailer with salt water, held my breath, and stuck my nose in it. It stung. And while I wasn’t sure, it seemed like salt water might help. Even though the guy had told me to stay away from the ocean, my mom made me gargle with salt water when I had a sore throat, so it seemed like there had to be something healing about it. I took a breath and dunked my nose back in a couple more times.
It seemed like weeks had passed since that day I’d gotten my nose pierced. How long had it really been? Two or three days?
I sighed.
I had been a different person, just thinking about stupid stuff like diamonds in my nose. Set on doing something my parents didn’t want me to do, simply because I could.
My parents.
I wanted to be with them, even if they didn’t always let me do what I wanted. I didn’t care. I would never care again if I could only get back to them.
My muscles still burned and I laid my head on the cushy edge of the raft, to rest for a moment, and shut my eyes. “I’m just resting for a little while, okay, Max?”
When I awoke, the sun was still high in the sky. My face was on fire, and I had a pounding headache. My thirst was becoming unbearable.
I pinched a piece of skin on the back of my han
d and let go. The skin stayed up, in a little mound, before slowly going back.
Sick.
Normally, if you pinch the skin on your hand like that, it springs back immediately. But when you’re dehydrated it’ll stay up, take longer to bounce back.
I pinched the back of Max’s hand. I had to turn away when I saw his skin took longer to settle than mine had. So much longer.
Although, maybe he was always like that. I had no way of knowing.
I was stuck on a raft with a person I knew hardly anything about. I wondered if being there with someone I knew would have been easier. But there were plenty of adults I knew that I most definitely would not want to be stuck on a raft with.
I had my own theories about adults. Mostly, they fell into two categories. The first, the ones I called the Regurgitators, think you want to know everything about them. Even when they ask you a question, like “So what do you like to do?” they still find a way to turn it around and make it about themselves.
The second are the Hoovers, they keep asking and asking and asking about you, sucking you dry of every bit of your life story.
Of course, some adults ask and tell equally.
“Max, where are you from?” I waited a moment, but he didn’t answer.
And then there are people like Max. I put him in the couldn’t-give-a-crap category. I knew he was injured and maybe sick, but still …
Max didn’t seem shy. He didn’t seem to care what I was doing on the plane without my parents, why I lived out in Midway, none of that.
Maybe I was being mean, since he did save my life. But I was stuck in a raft with him. And I was beginning to think he might be the last person I ever talked to.
There were a few things I could figure out on my own. He was a pilot. He was definitely new in the G-1 job, and he probably just got his pilot’s license in the last few years. And he had to go to some kind of aviation school to do that, so he must be smart. Pilots had to know math and physics and other difficult subjects.