Of Salt and Sand

Of Salt and Sand

Your head finally, finally breaks the surface, with strong hands grabbing you by the underpits, half-throwing half-pulling you onto a wet, latex-like surface. The darkness swarms like a flock of angry crows, and everything burns with an icy cold.  Your chest sparks to life in a rage of coughing, water streaming from your open mouth, and with it, the awful taste of salt and bile. There’s salted water in your eyes, and you have no clue who pulled you out, but none of that matters, none of it matters at all. Because now, after pure, unbridled agony, you can breathe.

The media never quite prepares you for reality, does it? It portrays tragedy as romance, and drama as a thrilling, exotic experience filled with tuxedos, guns, and red dresses. Even being stranded is glamorous, with actors using nothing but their surroundings and wit to survive, preferably with the help of being shirtless and a very nice survival hut. Always alone; but never afraid. And even if they are afraid, it’s the pretty sort of fear, with anxious tears rolling down perfectly flushed cheeks, and always followed by a deep breath, a sigh, and a new wave of determination.

I can tell you right now it’s not like that.

It’s a series of things, really. First, it’s an offhand sort of fear. A low rumble runs through the deck, an uncertain moment of losing your footing, a laugh as you smile at your fellow passenger’s jumpiness. Then it’s a stronger sense of foreboding, the calming hum and gentle movement of the ship coming to a halt, sudden and unnatural. Murmurs start to drift, almost foglike, rising off the water and coating the air in the way unique to only them. Your mind flashes towards the evacuation plan, and the quickest way to the deck by stairs. Everything’s frozen for a second, a certain deer-in-headlights moment, the calm before the storm. The moment passes. An alert sounds. Chaos erupts. 

Everybody is heading to the stairs, pushing past each other to form a current so strong that even if you hadn’t wanted to evacuate, you have no choice, caught in a swarm of people pressing forward. It’s confirmed, anyway. The ship is going down.

Someone hands you a life jacket. Someone different buckles and tightens it. Both are strangers, but both are saviors. Passengers are herded out onto the deck, assigned into different groups, and put into lifeboats. Mothers are frantically getting crying kids onto the lifeboats, nervous teenagers clutching bags and hands. Fear seems to be a common thread between everybody, which is strange, because it doesn’t seem to reach you. Sure, there’s a flurry of urgency and panic all around you. But you just stand there, in a band t-shirt, jeans, and as of ten seconds ago, a life vest. It’s not apathy, not exactly, but a feeling that the situation is completely out of your hands. 

Next thing you know, you’re in a lifeboat. There’s a bit of a salty spray as your boat is lowered into the water, a crewmember slowly starting the engine to get you and a few others out, away from what will be a smoking, sinking wreck in a matter of minutes. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see a few of the other neon-orange boats, all spreading in a wide, arching circle, all speeding away from the wreck. 

But something’s wrong. Of course it is, because Fate hasn’t had her game yet.

A boom rings through the air like the scream of a cannon, something huge breaking off of the ship and plunging into the water. You didn’t see what it was, and for a second, you don’t care. You’re evacuating anyway, right? 

The second passes, and a splash comes shortly after the boom. You want to shrug this off too, to dismiss it as nothing, so you do. But a splash means something hit the water, and that means that water has now been rudely displaced, which means…

There’s a wave coming right at you. A giant, white-tipped wall of water, a great beast awoken by man’s folly. You try to shout, but all of the sudden there’s water in your mouth. The solidarity of the lifeboat disappears from underneath you, cold seeping into your bones while salt scalds your throat. It’s an endless, blue-black abyss, with nothing to keep you in place anywhere. Somehow, your vest is gone, bobbing back up to the surface, empty. The violence, the pure anger of the water shoves you down, sucks you down, then decides it wants to push you back up, and it feels much like riding a bucking horse, holding on for dear life.

 Every part of your body is screaming. Your lungs beg for air, but there is none, of course there’s none. Your head is throbbing, beating black spots into your vision, all while the cold snakes its slender fingers around your skin, lacing every nerve with a burning ice, sending shivering convulsions pinging through your body. You’re a marionette dancing on broken strings, thrown about at the ocean’s will.

You stop fighting, and slowly start sinking. 

The burning in your chest has begun to stop, the fire of life slowly beginning to dim. The cold is no longer your enemy, but rather, a friend. It cuts away the strings of the ocean’s control, letting you slowly rise back up to execute the dead man’s float, pulling away from the inky depths of the unknown. The fear is gone, and though you still feel the blood pounding in your head, it’s no longer painful. Everything is painted in shades of watercolor blue, always blending, always changing. Somehow, through Fate’s wicked game, you’re conscious. It was awful, but now, bathing in different shades of satin light, you don’t mind.

The ocean erupts in a pillar of white foam and bubbles, sending a torpedo straight at you. Shock begins to warm you, flushing through your body, re-igniting the embers of your life. Some part of you hates the torpedo for ruining your last moments of peace. The other part of you is cackling, laughing at Fate for failing her mission. Death is no longer yours to keep. 

Strong hands wrap around your torso, just under your arms, your savior kicking to the surface, saving you both. Wet latex slides against your skin, rubbery and unsteady beneath your flailing limbs. The cold from the water subsides, giving way to the cold from the air, both equally as vicious, but one much more welcome. 

Air.

Suddenly, you’re on all fours in the raft, coughing up an ocean of water. Ironically, that’s exactly what it is. Water expels itself from your lungs, leaving lingering traces of salt, sand, and bile, air rushing to fill the emptiness. A heaving, sudden fulfillment surges through every part of your body, with sweet, delicious sea air calming the pain and soothing your damaged lungs. You’d never need food again, not with this abundance of air. And as for water, well, you’ve had enough of that. 

Your savior puts a hand on your back, steadying you. After all, you should be dead. You should be facedown in the inky, white-capped waves, just another tribute from Fate to Amphitrite. But instead, somebody decided it worthwhile to save you, in your soaked jeans, and soggy band shirt. You look over at them, and in the moon’s weak glow, you realize that you recognize this man. Of course you would. He welcomed you on board. 

And his captain’s uniform is just as soaked as your clothes are. 

Your chest is heaving, your heart is racing. He’s a captain, in every way. He’s got a full, black beard, accented with streaks of grey here and there. In the silver moonlight, his face is lined and wind-chapped, and all he’s missing to be a true captain of stories is a pipe, what with the weary brown eyes and the smell of wood and rope worked deep into his skin. The hands that pulled you from the water were strong, strong indeed. But there was a sadness to his movements, a sense of foreshadowing that was almost lyrical. The silence of the sea smothers the two of you, neither speaking, or even moving closer to each other. How could you, anyway? This isn’t a lifeboat. It’s a rubber raft, complete with the ominous squeaking of the latex, and water pooling slightly around your knees. It’s not sturdy in the slightest, always moving underneath you, water arcing up for the sole purpose of shaking your certainty. It’s laughable, really. Stuck at sea in a latex raft, with the captain of the now-sunken ship. 

It takes you a minute, what with fear fresh and burning anew in your chest, you something slowly begins to click. If the captain was here, in a life raft, then what had happened to his life boat? What had happened to the other six in his boat? The moonlit sadness in his face tells you exactly what happened. 

An eternity of drifting passes, doubles back, then passes again, the rocking motion never tiring, never leading, never straying. It’s taking you somewhere, sure. You can’t seem to care. Hunger has begun to gnaw at your stomach, and thirst has begun to pour its gravel into your throat, drawing misery from your already miserable body. The captain says nothing, but in the light of the soft dawn, you can just make out the lettering on his name tag.

Captain Theodore Avnast.

He saved your life. He’s also the one who put it in danger. You try to mumble a thanks, but your mouth is dry and your mind is spiteful. He simply nods, and flicks his chin over to point at something behind you. You look, then settle back into your position, then snap back to look again. A beach, low and golden, edges its way into your vision, a perfect image of salvation. 

You don’t yet know that it will become your damnation.

Slowly, and carefully, Theodore starts to test the water, seeing if it’s shallow enough for him to stand. Once it was, he slid off the raft, slowly pulling you to shore. You realize with a start that you’re exhausted, but now too wired to rest, so you slide off and help him pull the raft up onto the sand, thoroughly thrilled by the scrape of rubber on the beach. The sun rises faster now, as if encouraged by your small victory. 

The very second you get the raft on shore, you notice something inside of it. There’s three water bottles, three cans of food, and a tarp, all tucked neatly inside the emergency kit, bound to the left wall of the raft. That, and something else. A revolver glitters silver near the edge. Theodore says nothing, but gently scoops up the revolver and clicks it back into a holster on his hip. The feeling of unease that filled you moments before is gone, of course a captain would have a gun. Of course. The unease rises again when he looks at you, brown eyes thoroughly determined, locked on a task. His gaze mirrors yours, and slowly, you turn to look at the supply you have.

It’s not enough for one day, let alone two people stranded. You don’t even know if rescue is coming, or if there’s anything on the island. His gaze snaps back to you, and suddenly the revolver is a threat, a giant warning sign. He steps closer. He steps closer, and puts a hand on your shoulder. When he speaks, it’s a sunburnt tone, a man truly of salt and sand. 

“Take care of yourself, kid.”

His hand slides off your shoulder, and he turns, heading to the shore. You call out, but he just tells you to stay, and you do. Maybe it’s the authority in his voice, maybe it’s the defeat and determination in his shoulders, but you do. You stay, and watch his form slowly become one with the rising sun, until a terrible thing happens.

A bang rings through the air, slicing through the sea, slicing through the shore, slicing through your head. It’s loud, deafeningly so, and you know exactly what it is. The revolver flashes through your mind, gleaming silver and dripping blood and seawater. 

You don’t know you’re running until the raft is far away, the shore is near, and the tide is lapping at a navy blue uniform. There’s a hole leaking blood in his stomach, staining the sand and the water. There’s a moment of understanding between you two, a realization clicking into place. He dies, so that you might live a little longer. How could you be so unwittingly selfish? Blood stains the golden hue of sand, the beach that seemed so perfect before now revealing itself to be a graveyard, Fate gunning down whoever she can. You kneel, and he smiles, tears slipping down his cheeks and disappearing into the tide. In a strained breath, he chokes out a few words, slowly growing limp. 

“A good captain… a good captain goes down with his ship.”

It was not a Hollywood death. He didn’t exhale with a sigh, then drop limp, holding his breath until the cameras cut. He didn’t stay perfectly still, and you didn’t cry out and pull him into your lap. No. It’s never how it is in the movies. 

He dropped, almost instantly after his last breath fled his lungs like a caged bird finally free. There was no peacefully slow relaxation, but a sudden hollowness, as if he had been no more than an abandoned toy. The color drained from his cheeks, then the rest of him, slowly going the same dull and lifeless grey of the early dawn, the rest of his life leaking, staining the sand. You’ve never been religious, but now you wish you were, if only to say a blessing for him. A good man has died. A good man has died, and the gods have done nothing about it.

 It’s been three days since you left him there, on the shore.

More accurately, you robbed him, then left him. Left him to the sand and the tide, both slowly working to reclaim their own. In your hands is a half-empty lighter from his chest pocket, and the glittering silver revolver, which bears a single bullet left. You can’t help but think that he left it for you. 

At first, you scorned the thought. But now, lying on the raft with the tarp tented over it, you’re thinking of reconsidering. The water is gone. Same for the food. You’re starving and parched, with no knowledge on how to hunt, fish, or forage. You’re a college student supposed to be on your way home for the holidays. You can’t survive on a deserted island by yourself, surrounded by empty bottles and cans. ‘Surrounded’. There’s only six of them.

Your skin is sunburnt many times over, red, angry, and peeling. Your jeans are full of sand, stiff, and smell of sweat, as does your shirt, as do you. The cans were not enough, and your body hangs off its frame like a coat on a wire hanger, slowly eating itself to survive. Your stolen lighter has kept you warm, along with dead branches and dry driftwood, each fire a monument to everything you’ve done. The smell of smoke seeps into your skin, just as his blood seeped into the sand.

You’re… alone. So utterly, totally, alone. And now, that bullet is looking just like the vacation you were going to have. And so, you’re going to do it. With your chapped, aching hands, and your mangled mess of a body, you’re going to do it, right there, on the beach, tonight. 

Dusk comes much faster than you thought it would. But you made a promise, and you are fully intent on keeping it. So you do, you walk down to the beach, near Theodore’s grave. Guilt surges through you, but it’s no matter, you’ll see him in a second. You allow yourself one last look at the stars, one last bit of comfort to your failing body.

The helicopter’s spotlight clicks on, flooding the island. You’ve been saved.

Two months, one week, and three days later, you get a call, sitting on the balcony of your apartment. The house is quiet, no longer flooded with news people, nurses, or other various people claiming to be important. The phone rings three times before you answer, hearing an upbeat, peppy voice on the other end. 

“Hi, is this Kennedy Ferreto?”

Yes, you say. 

“Oh, good! I’m with a film company who would be absolutely thrilled if you would let us make a movie off of your-“

You hang up, glancing over at a small, silver revolver on your mantle. The media doesn’t want you, not really. Your story isn’t a red-dress tuxedo story, and to be honest? It was not a Hollywood death. It was not a Hollywood death that stole that mother and her children, that snatched that teenager, the crew, and even Theodore. Anger surges through you, a feeling of hopelessness and guilt. No matter, you say, but this feeling is not easily shaken. 

You look up, trying to capture the same desperate hope that you had when your head first broke the water, the feeling of sudden fulfillment and stunned joy. It’s no island, and you're no sea captain, but from your window you can see them, just the same as the night on the raft, just the same as the night on the island.

The stars are beautiful tonight.