When we don’t have rain, we only sip.
Sarah’s husband was the lieutenant governor of South Carolina. She revealed to us yesterday that they’d diagnosed her with pancreatic cancer a month ago. Inoperable.
They hadn’t even told their kids yet.
She’d remained mostly quiet throughout our ordeal, but yesterday she became a damned chatterbox. I didn’t understand, at the time, why she was telling us all this now, but she started talking, and talking.
And talking.
This was going to be a sort of bucket-list trip for her and her husband, and she wasn’t going to get treatment for her cancer. She was going to keep going until she couldn’t go any longer. Once his term was up, he was going to retire from public life and spend the time with her. She refused to let him retire early.
We don’t know if her husband made it or not. He shoved her out the starboard aft exit and disappeared back into the cabin to try to help someone else from their group who’d fallen in the center aisle.
She never saw him again.
He couldn’t swim, and he wasn’t wearing a life vest. He put the one from under his seat on her, because her seat didn’t have one.
Ooooh, fucking Yelp, you just wait.
We’ve all had to answer the call of nature, although rarely now, because we’re barely drinking and not eating, obviously. So I don’t think much of what she’s doing, at first, until I actually process that she’s removed her jewelry and life jacket.
Sarah realizes I’m awake when I sit up. She pauses and meets my gaze, gives me a sad smile, and then disappears into the water. When I get up to look, I see her floating on her back, a peaceful smile on her face as she pushes away from the raft. She waves good-bye to me.
I’m going to call out to her, or at least raise an alarm, when I hear a voice behind me.
“Let her go,” George whispers.
I turn and see he hasn’t moved from where he was sitting next to me, but his eyes are barely open. We’re all sunburned and squinting and having problems with our skin cracking, drying out. The men, including George, are all sporting scruffy beards now.
I probably look like a wookie.
“But—”
He shakes his head. “Let her go.”
We’re now down to six.
In my mind, I recalculate our water supply.
* * * *
I’m sneaking a swallow of water the night of day thirteen when I finally process I’m hearing…something.
It’s…
It sounds like waves, but it doesn’t sound the same as what we’ve been hearing against the sides of the raft.
My mind is puzzling this over for the better part of an hour when enough brain cells finally band together to smack me upside the head. I rise, trip, and fall flat on my face, waking everyone up when I scramble to my feet and start looking around the outside of the raft.
In the distance, thanks to the moonless night, I spot the soft bioluminescent glow of waves breaking against a shoreline.
My hoarse, wordless scream gets George up on his feet. All I can do is point and scream. We’ve all seen daytime mirages—another reason I opt to try to sleep through the days—but George also starts wordlessly screaming and stumbles as he dives for two of the paddles, handing me one. We start paddling like crazy motherfuckers, now with Allen and Collin both trying to help.
It takes us nearly an hour, but we finally hear scraping beneath us as we bottom out in the shallows. George is laugh-sobbing as he falls out of the cutout and stands, showing he’s in water that’s not even waist deep on him. We’re all wordlessly sobbing as Allen and Collin both clamber out and help George drag the raft out of the water.
I nearly face-plant when I try to get out, and George has to catch me and help me out, but…
It’s fucking land.
I don’t know if it can rightfully be called an island, because it can’t be more than three thousand square feet, if that.
But it’s not.
Fucking.
Ocean.
The six of us sit there, crying and holding each other in the dark.
* * * *
I must have used up what little energy I had left, between the paddling and trying to get out of the raft, because as my watch shows it’s 5:30 in the morning, I realize now that I can’t stand. My body still wobbles like I’m on the raft, and my knees won’t support me. I have to crawl or drag myself across the ground.
George, Allen, Collin, and Connie have all scoured the tiny spit of land in the dim light for everything possible we can use. There’s various plastic debris, some random metal, pieces of styrofoam fishing buoys, and other crap. There’s some tufts of grasses at the highest point of our current residence, which is maybe ten feet above the water, if that, but that’s all in terms of vegetation on the mostly rocky land. We must have arrived at high tide, because the water eventually starts to recede, giving us a few more yards of real estate all the way around.
I catch sight of something moving near me in the pre-dawn gloom. Reflexively, I grab a paddle and smack the fucking crap out of the moving thing, hearing a sickening and yet satisfying crunch as I do.
Turns out it’s a crab.
Motherfucker.
I let out another wordless scream that probably sounds more psychotic than celebratory as I point to my smashed prize.
It takes the men less than five minutes to grab paddles of their own and start searching for more of the little fuckers, where they’re mostly hiding among the piles of seaweed left bundled at the high-tide line. Connie and Lisa are nearly as bad off as I am, Lisa sitting there and silently watching, Connie aimlessly standing in one spot with another paddle, but not much help as she looks around her at the ground.
We end up with fifteen. They’re less than four inches across, most way smaller, but George uses Pat’s pocketknife to start splitting them open and divvying them up. While my stomach rebels, I manage to keep a couple of bites down but hand the rest of mine off to Connie when I realize if I risk any more, it’s just going to come up again. I need to preserve the water in my stomach.
She looks like she’s going to argue with me before she sighs, takes it, and eats it.
* * * *
Once it’s fully daylight, the men carefully drag the raft all the way on shore. We don’t want to lose it. We’re not out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re still alive.
#notdeadyet
I can barely talk now, thanks to screaming and my swollen, cracked lips, but George, at least, can understand me. I manage to tell him about an episode of Mythbusters, where they dug a hole in beach sand, stuck a container in the bottom, and used a plastic tarp over the top to condense water.
They find one patch of ground above the high-tide line that might work. George and Collin use scraps of metal they scavenged to start digging, and three hours later, they have made a bowl in the bottom of the hole with one of the mylar blankets folded to catch the most water, and weighed another blanket around its edges over the top of the hole. I’m afraid to use one of the bottles to catch the water, even with the top cut off, for fear that we might position it in the wrong place. We can’t see inside with the top blanket over the hole.
By the end of the day, we’ve collected almost a full bottle’s worth of water.
It’s…something.
We set it to the side.
Now, it’s me and George both sitting up and taking night watch.
The crabs return.
I’m the first one to spot that, and George grabs a paddle and starts whacking, waking Allen and Collin in the process.
We end up with twenty this time, and I manage to keep two down, and give one of mine to Connie.
I still can’t walk, though. I’m too weak.
* * * *
By the early morning hours of day nineteen, I’m unable to keep much down. George and I had fallen asleep. We awaken to find Lisa sitting in the surf, laughing, and drinking sea water cupped in her
hands. When he tries to grab her, she fights him, until he finally stumbles back and gives up.
He doesn’t have the energy to expend to try to save her.
Allen and Collin try to talk to her, and she ignores them.
Connie sits there watching and cries.
I’m not…doing so hot. We’re really rationing water like crazy now, because we haven’t seen rain in two days.
Lisa is the first lady of Alabama, and fifty-nine years old.
She eventually crawls out of the surf and collapses facedown on the ground.
George and Allen get her rolled over and, with Collin’s help, drag her up past the high-tide line.
She never regains consciousness. I keep an eye on my watch and George checks her pulse every thirty minutes.
Somewhere between five-thirty and six that evening, she dies.
I don’t even try to eat any crab that night, and make the others take my share, especially George, since he moved around the most today. My secret purse stash of water is long gone, and without any rain, our little makeshift water catcher won’t keep up with demand.
We have maybe three days of water left.
* * * *
By late afternoon of day twenty, I haven’t been able to stand in six days. Seven?
I don’t know now.
George stays close to me, and any time he sees me try to move toward the water, he forces me back to the raft.
Now, he sits against the outside of the raft with me propped against him, always keeping an arm around me so he can feel me if I move. He tries to keep me shaded as much as possible.
I’ve started talking. Connie’s asleep inside the raft with Collin. Allen is sitting on the other side of the island, keeping watch.
Now I understand why Sarah started talking.
Because I know soon I won’t be talking anymore.
“Carter lost two brothers,” I say to George. “Pete and Tom. They were both killed in action.” I squint as I stare out over the dark, velvety water in the waning light. “We tried so hard to have kids, me and Owen.”
“Carter,” George says.
“Huh?”
“You said you and Owen tried to have kids. Owen’s your friend. Carter’s your husband.”
I nod. “I’m dead anyway.”
“Stop talking like that. Something could happen.”
I turn my head. “It’s the three of us,” I say. “It’s not just me and Carter. It’s Owen, too.” I snort. “I own him.”
“Susa, honey, maybe you should try to sleep. Save your strength.”
I shake my head and I struggle not to cry. “I’m never going to see my guys again. We’ve been together since college. Like Fifty Shades? We were ahead of the bell curve.”
“Um, oh.”
“That’s what I mean by I own him. He’s mine, and we both belong to Carter, my husband.”
George holds a bottle of water to my lips. “Take a sip, Susa.”
I try to push his hand away. “You shouldn’t waste any more water on me.”
He gently pulls my hand away. I don’t have the strength to fight him. “You let me decide that. Sip, girl. Now.”
For a moment, he reminds me so much of Carter that I do as he says.
I feel better in the evenings and at night. I can keep water down at night, and he knows that. He tries to get me to drink more at night.
“I had a meltdown a couple of weeks ago,” I admit. “I mean, before the trip.”
“What kind of meltdown?”
“Because we can’t have kids. Four years we’ve tried now. Carter can’t have kids, but Owen can, so Carter had me and Owen trying. I guess I’ve been getting more upset about it, even though I thought I was doing okay. Then Carter went behind my back to my doctor and got my prescription for birth control pills refilled, and left them for me on the bathroom counter. I chucked them.”
“Why?”
“Because fuck it, why take them if I can’t get pregnant? I think it was his way of trying to tell me that it was okay, that I didn’t have to keep trying, if I didn’t want to. That was before the meltdown. Like, days, or something. Maybe weeks. I don’t even remember now.”
Thinking’s hard. Really hard. But I want this all said so maybe he can tell my guys for me. “Then he tried to talk to me about seeing a fertility specialist, if I really wanted to keep trying, and…” I feel shame about this now. “I snapped.”
“Snapped?”
“I don’t even remember most of it. I came up off the couch swinging and he had to pin me down and text Owen to come over and help calm me down.”
“Ah. You are feisty.”
“Yeah. Sort of.” I sigh. “Tell them I’m sorry, please? I’m sorry I didn’t listen to them and let them take me to a doctor. That I’m sorry I was so stubborn.”
He adjusts the shade of the mylar blanket over me. “It’ll be getting dark soon,” he says. “About another hour. You’ll feel better then, sweetie.”
I wonder how many more sunsets I’ll see. “If they rescue you…” I don’t want to cry and waste the precious few swallows of water I had. “Please tell Carter and Owen I love them. And that I’m sorry for my meltdown.”
“You’ll tell them yourself, girl.”
I finally squint and try to focus on him. Hard to recognize him now with the beard, but his blue eyes peer back at me from his sunburned face. “I’m not going to make it,” I tell him. I know beyond him is Lisa’s body. “Don’t let me start drinking salt water,” I beg. “Please? You have my permission to smack me with a paddle.” I giggle. “Just not on my ass. I like that too much.”
He smiles. I think. Hard to tell as blurry everything looks. “You talk an awful lot for a girl who’s convinced she’s dying.”
“You sound awfully cocky for a guy stuck on Gilligan’s Island. Look how that worked out for them.”
“They got off.”
I snort. “Oh, that wasn’t a double-entendre? Sorry.”
He laughs. “No, really. They were rescued. There was a movie.”
“Yeah, but they ended back on the island. I think that was the plot for Lost, too. Metaphor for Hell.” I gasp. “Shit!”
“What?”
“I think I literally just came up with the perfect analogy, and I’ll never get to tell anyone else about it.” I fight the urge to pout. “Tell Carter I said the whole cycle of Gilligan’s Island is basically the uselessness of existence. Futility. Failure.”
“That’s…deep.”
“I never had kids to watch it with. We never got to have kids.”
He holds my hand and does a passable British accent. “We’re not dead yet.”
I gasp. “You’ve been holding out on me! You like Monty Python. You rat bastard.”
I almost start crying again when I think of Carter.
He chuckles. “My wife hates Monty Python.” He sadly sighs. “Hated,” he whispers.
Fuck. “I’m sorry.” He’s been so strong, not talking much about losing his wife. His kids lost their mom, might lose him, too.
Here I am, whining, when I have two perfectly good and safe husbands waiting for me at home.
At least they won’t be alone. They’ll have each other.
He squeezes my hand. “Thank god the kids didn’t come with us. I almost bought them tickets, but my brother was going to Alaska for three weeks and offered to take them all with him. Ellen wanted them to go with him so we could have some time alone.”
Kids. “How many kids again?” I know this already from our talks, but once I die, he might not have anyone to talk to, depending on how long the others survive. I feel guilty I’m going to be abandoning him.
“Two boys and a girl. Nineteen, seventeen, and fifteen.”
I squeeze his hand. “Sorry.”
He looks at me. “Trade you a kid for a husband?” He smiles.
I think. Hard to tell with the scruff on his face.
“I don’t know. You a Top or a bottom?”
“Oooh, m
e? Totally a Top. Ellen liked when I blindfolded her and tied her to the bed. That’s as kinky as we ever got as far as sex, because that’s also how we ended up with three kids.”
“Yeah, well, that’ll do it. What else did you guys do?”
“Had to get sneaky because of three kids. But she was…mine.”
Ah. Maybe that’s why we clicked so well. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” His hand finds mine and squeezes, stays there, and I don’t mind.
“You took her rings,” I softly say. “And was that her day collar? The necklace?”
He sounds choked up. ‘Yeah.”
“My bracelet,” I say. “And my necklace. Please make sure they get back to them. And my rings.” I indicate my right ring. “Owen gave me that one. He’s our husband, even if we can’t tell anyone.”
“They’re lucky guys. I’m sure they’re worried to death about you right now. Make sure you drink when I tell you to, or I’ll tell them you were a bad girl and they won’t spank you.”
“Ah, you rat bastard. And here I thought we were friends.” I sigh. I want to sit up, but I can’t. I don’t have the strength to do anything but lean against him. “How much water is left?”
“Allen’s working on another pit.” George shifts position and helps me sit up, leaning against him. “We’ll be okay.”
I make a noise. “Did I actually pray for it to stop raining at one point?”
“Yeah. How stupid were we?”
“I’m from Florida. You’d think I’d know better. Take the rain when it comes and be grateful for it.” We sit in silence until sunset. Our backs are to it, because we’ve gotten used to sitting with our backs to the sun whenever possible. “Turn me around,” I softly ask. “Please? So I can see it?”
He does. I can barely hold my head up. “Feel free to eat me when I die,” I offer. “I should have some ass meat left. Maybe my boobs. Tell Carter and Owen I gave you permission.”
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