One More Day

It was 6:00 am. Rafer lay in bed, bitterly depressed. It wasn’t so much that he would miss his mom and dad when he left tomorrow morning. He’d be able to video call them whenever he wanted. No, he felt depressed because he’d miss the small patch of land surrounding his home; it was all he knew, and all he wanted. Sure, he and his folks were isolated. The nearest house was a good half-mile away. And yeah, they were poor taro farmers who only just bought their first cell phone a few years ago. Still, the raw beauty of this island with the head-high grass and tropical fruit trees swaying in the ocean breeze behind their little bamboo house, and the horseshoe inlet with topaz blue water and peeling waves, a mere 100 feet in front, was everything to him. He was an island boy with saltwater for blood and reef for bone, but soon, too soon, he would fly away to Missouri State, a freshman in their work-study program.

A powerful gust of wind blew through the little house, shifting Rafer’s mind back to the day at hand. He was going to spend it alone. His mom and dad left the day before with a truckload of wild coconuts crammed into their rusted Chevy Pickup — 1,000 pounds of fruit they spent days picking, hoping to sell to one of the five-star resorts that lined the coast ten miles away. They still weren’t back, which meant they’d had no luck yesterday with any of the hotel chefs they’d met. That also meant they had to spend the night crammed into the front seats of the truck, a feat that was absolute torture for his aging parents. He knew they were putting their bodies through hell for him, so he’d have emergency money when he first arrived in Missouri. He sighed and sagged deeper into his depression.

Rafer moped for another ten minutes, but he couldn’t spend his last day in paradise doing nothing. He lumbered out of bed and made his way to the living room, where a cloud of bugs met him, buzzing around his head and jetting in and out of his eyes and mouth. “Damnit,” he muttered.

He scanned the mosquito netting covering the broken living room window and found a small hole near the top of it. “Everyone in the world can afford to fix a busted window, but us,” he said to himself.

He grabbed some tape from the drawer, still shooing away the insects circling him, and stuck on a large piece. Problem solved. Then he shuffled onto the balcony to find relief from the bugs and scan the surf.

There was energy in the water, a pulse that rarely arrived until the open ocean winds pushed in heavier waves during the winter months. It was breaking double overhead, right in front of his house. He smiled, and his depression leveled down from an eight to a milder five.

Rafer grabbed his board shorts hanging over the balcony railing and pulled them on fast, excited to rip into his first barrel of the day. He shoved his knocked-up surfboard under his armpit and sprinted across the sand to the ocean as he laughed, “this is gonna be fun,” he said to the wind.

He hit the water with his board in hand and immediately felt the current tugging hard at his ankles and knees. He jumped onto his surfboard and paddled out through the choppy white water, a very un-summer-like wind hacking at his face, forcing him to squint as he shivered his way stroke by stroke towards the biggest peak.

After 20 minutes, he made it out and plopped down onto his board, exhausted, shoulders burning. He scanned the horizon and saw a streak of black clouds far off in the distance, the source of the ocean’s commotion revealing itself. A massive summer storm was blowing in. He sighed, feeling entirely depressed again. He loved the fury of a great rain shower; the sound the of wind rushing through the trees and the heavy rain drops hitting the roof always soothed him. He didn’t know how he’d leave this island.

The ocean dipped and slapped him in the face. He looked down from the sky and saw an enormous rogue wave building 200 yards outside of him. Panic inched its way through his belly, up his chest, and into his throat, choking him. He took a deep breath and fought off the terror threatening to overwhelm him. He was out here in the ocean by himself—he had to focus. There was no way he would make it over the beast. His shoulders were still dead, and it was forming too far out. He paddled towards it, anyway. If it was going to rough him up, it was better to be out in the deeper water away from the shallow reef that could not only slice him but break a bone or kill him if he hit his head on it.

Rafer drove his hands into the water, one after another, the rhythm helping him remain calm. And all the while, the wave grew as it sucked up the water in front of him, propelling him faster toward its face. He kept paddling with everything he had, shoulders screaming, knowing he had to get farther out to stand a chance. He advanced closer and closer to the mountain of water until it loomed over him, consuming everything. And it continued to swallow up the ocean, rising until the massive wave heaved up to its full height of 30 feet. It lurched at the top for a moment and then thundered down right on top of Rafer’s head as he ditched his board and dove as deep as he could, hoping to avoid the energy of the wave. His plan failed. The wave grabbed hold of him, sucking him all the way up its backside until Rafer rested at the top for a split second of utter stillness, and then it slammed him down with the force of 1000 tons of water. It pushed him under the surface impossibly deep; the water shifted from dark blue to black, and still, he went down farther, unable to squirm out of the grip of the wave, and then he hit the reef hard with a thud. Fire shot through his ribs, sucking away what little breath he had left, and for the first time, he realized he might drown. He quickly thought about his parents, and the countless hours he’d spent studying for the SATs, and this island he loved. A sudden explosion to live engulfed him. He kicked off the reef as hard as he could and swam up to the surface, willing himself to the top as the fire in his ribs and lack of air in his lungs made him dizzy.

His head broke through the surface, and he gulped down air like it was water. He rested his head back onto the surface of the ocean and he let out a half-crazed cackle. Fire shot through his side, subduing him. He searched for his surfboard for a moment, knowing the giant wave had pounded it into a dozen pieces. “Damn, that was my only board,” he said, fighting back the tears sprouting in his eyes.

He wrapped his left hand around his ribs and one-arm free stroked back toward the shore until a decent-sized roller picked him up, and he bodysurfed to the shallows. Once he could touch the bottom, he staggered the rest of the way in and sat on the sand, feeling his side as it throbbed. He took a few long breaths. There was pain, but it wasn’t take-your-breath-away pain. “My ribs aren’t cracked,” he told himself, flooding with relief. “They’re just bruised.”

He gathered himself up to make the short trek back to his house when he saw the nose of his board wash into shore a few feet away. He shook his head sadly, went to gather it up, and shuffled across the sand back home as the storm winds picked up and blew across his body.

Once he was back inside, he gingerly slid his board shorts off and rummaged in the freezer for something cold to cover the growing ache in his ribs. All he could find was a single frozen chicken breast lying inside, unwrapped. He grabbed it and headed to his bed, trying to ignore the buzzing insects trapped inside the house. He groaned as he slowly laid down. Then he rested his head on the pillow and held the chicken breast on top of his rib, wincing at the sharp cold. His right side slowly numbed, and his eyes grew heavy. He fell asleep just as the first raindrops fell from the sky.

He woke a few hours later, rubbing his eyes, still groggy. He felt a tingling sensation up and down his body and quickly scanned his side, worried his ribs were in worse condition than he first guessed. Thousands of black ants were marching up his legs and across his stomach and chest, lapping up the defrosted chicken juice that had slowly spread across his body as he napped. He lurched up, brushing the ants away. Fire shot through his ribs, and the world went black for a moment. He gently lay back down, his soggy bed squishing like a sponge. He took a deep breath to calm himself, “The ants aren’t biting you,” he told himself. “Just relax.”

This time he slowly sat up, clenching his jaw at the thousands of little ant feet tickling him, and he made his way to the shower. He quickly rinsed the ants away, ribs throbbing, and noticed dozens of angry welts running up and down his arms and across his chest, too big and too red to be ant bites. He scratched at them. “What’s going on today?” He asked, anger rising.

He turned off the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and went out to the living room to assess the situation, noticing the sound of rain hammering on the roof for the first time. Dozens of insects buzzed around Rafer’s ear. He waved his hand at them and saw the mosquito netting that should have covered the broken window splayed out on the ground next to the sofa, blown down by the wind. A swarm of mosquitoes, flies, moths, and beetles hovered around the living room ceiling, trying to find safety from the summer storm pounding away outside. Rafer felt a sharp sting on his arm; he looked down and slapped at a brown mosquito. He missed, and it buzzed off toward his bedroom. Another welt was already showing.

He quickly escaped outside to the balcony. He plopped down on the lone chair. The cushion squished as rainwater shot out of it. His ribs pounded, his arms and chest itched, his belly rumbled, and there were ants marching across his soaked bed — the combination of maladies dug a path through his brain, creating a newfound clarity. An understanding no child ever wants to realize about his own father emerged. His dad was miserable. Every night he trudged home from the fields, dirt covering his sweaty face and arms. Once inside, he’d give Rafer, his only son, a cursory nod. Then he’d slip on his swimming trunks and march back out to the ocean for a sunset swim to wash away the day. He’d come back thirty minutes later, fighting to keep his eyes open and scarf down his dinner before collapsing into his weatherbeaten chair on the balcony, listening to the waves crash as he passed out.

Rafer sat there, a small grin emerging on his face. He no longer felt depressed. He finally understood why his father had pushed him so hard to study and go off to college when all he wanted to do growing up was surf and enjoy the land. Rafer’s father didn’t want him to end up trapped with no other options except to grind in the dirt every day until his body and mind wore down to nothing—until he was so thoroughly exhausted, he couldn’t enjoy the island he once loved.

Rafer arched his back and stretched his hands in the air, breathing in the pain with a smile. He was finally ready to leave tomorrow morning.