Afloat

The breeze was cool, almost cold, and constant. But he had stopped being bothered by this more than a week ago.

He lay uncomfortably on his back. He was barefoot, shirtless, unkempt, and his trousers were torn and soiled. His shirt had been long ago removed and arranged to block the sun from his face. His lips were badly swollen and cracked. They hurt. He was long beyond the thoughts of applying a layer of soothing lip balm in hopes of relief.

He thought only of water and food. A glass of water, he wanted. A gallon, really. He had been without drink for five days, maybe six. Food was ample, but frustratingly inaccessible. Numerous tins of meat, fish, and soups lay at his feet. The labels has been torn from several cans and severely dented from violent smashings together in a bootless attempt to defeat the canning process. The can opener lay on the floor of the vessel in two parts. Broken! Maddening beyond belief.

He didn’t know how far, or near, he was from the nearest landfall. It had been two days since he last had the strength to raise his head and look over the edge of his small vessel. A wooden boat, a row boat, twelve feet in length. He saw nothing but water at his last peak, an endless sea.

Several nights ago a fish jumped out of the sea and landed in the boat. Dumb luck. He ate it hungrily. Raw, squirming in his hands until he discarded the head and fins. Last night two fish landed in the boat. He was too weak and clumsy to handle either of them. They tumbled through his fumbling hands and safely back into the sea.

Despite the circumstances, the nights were actually beautiful. With not a light shining for miles around, the stars appeared as bright as street lamps. The shirt was removed nightly from sunscreen duty and, instead, employed as a pillow as he let his mind wander amongst the stars. This was his escape from the cageless captivity. He was an astronaut floating weightless in space. He was an ancient Phoenician sailor traveling from one land to the next looking to the stars to confirm his way. A 25th century B.C. laborer building pyramids in the desert of Cairo enjoying the night’s break from labor and heat as he stared at the stars and lost himself in his imagination.

An island with fresh water and fruit trees was on the starboard side. It was less than a mile away, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t looked over the side since the island had broken the horizon. The vessel was drifting parallel to the coastline and was getting no closer. Even if he saw it he probably wouldn’t have the strength to swim to it. He had only one oar, the other was lost fighting off the other passengers of the sinking ship. He had been concerned the food would not be enough for everyone.

It was a calm gentle rolling sea that kept him afloat.


-klem