LOST

Megan crawled her way up to the beach, her fingers clawing into the sand, her feet digging in to give her purchase in the crashing waves. She was gasping for air and choking on all the salt water she had swallowed. When she felt solid ground beneath her, her arms gave out and she collapsed onto the sandy beach. She started choking again and soon threw up all the salt water that she had swallowed. She lay there for long minutes as her heart stopped pounding and her mind started to grasp the fact that she had made it to the beach.  She had survived. She rested her cheek on the cool wet sand and felt the rough grains imbed themselves in her face. The slight pain was a refreshing reminder that she was alive.

She wiggled her fingers and then her hands and her arms; everything seemed to be working. She next wiggled her toes, her feet, and her legs. Good, good. She assessed her torso as she lay on the sand, her belly ached but she thought that was the result of hurling up all the seawater and her lungs were starting to return to normal. It was her head that seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage. If she opened her eyes she could see a small pool of blood forming in the sand beside her. Probably the result of the boom on the sailboat striking her on the head and knocking her overboard.

Megan slowly raised her hand to her head and touched her tender head, she glanced at the blood on her hand when she pulled it away. Her stomach rumbled again but this time from the sight of her own blood, she never was good with anything bloody.

Her senses were heightened by her recent near-death experience. Megan smelled the metallic taste of the blood from the open wound on her forehead as the blood continued to drip unchecked down her face. The smell of seaweed and kelp and all things under the sea were also forefront on her aroma radar.

She tried to gather some saliva in her mouth to spit out the grains of sand that made her tongue feel gritty.

 The tide started coming in, little by little the water first licking her toes and then each and every succeeding wave rising and covering a little more of her body. When the water covered her shoulders she knew she had to do something. Pushing into the sand with her hands, her arms wobbled until she was higher off the sand. She then raised herself to her knees as the tide continued to rise. Shakily she gained her feet and staggered up the beach towards an area where a small grove of palm trees formed a line separating the sandy beach from the lush greenery. She leaned against the nearest palm tree and surveyed her newly gained domain. She stood on what looked to be a small island. She was about dead centre in the little cove, that, if the circumstances were more favorable, would be labeled a tropical paradise. As it were, the beach was strewn with debris from the storm, and the sky had that storm-tossed look to it. There were no visual signs of her boat, The Megan Jane; it was probably resting on the bottom of the ocean at this point.

The Megan Jane had been her pride and joy; she had scrimped and saved for years to buy the boat of her dreams. Others dreamed of owning a home, with beautiful gardens and an interior decorated by some Feng Shui guru. Megan's dream had always been to own her own boat. The Megan Jane wasn't a yacht or even an especially large sailing craft, but it was all hers. It had a large pristine white mainsail and a baby blue jib sail. It seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. Below deck was a small tastefully decorated stateroom and a kitchenette where she could indulge in her other favourite pastime of cooking. A small bathroom, the head, was tucked in beside an equally small storage room.

Megan had been sailing her entire life. She felt most at home on the water, each summer she would head south along the Atlantic coast to find an idyllic spot to anchor her boat, play in some secluded cove, and hope a pod of dolphins would come join her. A small retractable awning partially covered the deck and provided her some protection from the sun or rain; it created a place where she could read and write to her heart's content. But now The Megan Jane was probably lying on the ocean floor.

The storm had come up so suddenly, out of nowhere, one moment the sky was blue and cloudless. She headed down in her tiny galley to do some cooking, then suddenly squalls hit the boat broadside and she quickly ran topside and headed the bow into the storm. 

It was no use, the waves and wind hit, and the last thing she remembered clearly was the mast cracking and crashing down around her,  the boom striking her on the head.

Fortuitously, she had been fairly close to shore. Unluckily she was swimming through waves that were capable of taking out a ship the size of the Titanic. It might be an exaggeration on her part, but in retrospect, it sure felt like it. The fact that she had made it to shore alive was every bit of a miracle.

Megan was feeling a little stronger as she leaned against the tree, she surveyed the area nearest her. The storm had abated somewhat, fast and furious then quickly petering out; that was the way of these tropical storms.

There looked to be a small hill a ways back and she headed that way, wobbly at first, then gaining a little strength. It took a long time to get to the top, winding her way through the undergrowth, and passing a small pond where she paused to get a drink. Thank God, fresh water, she thought. The trees were also laden with fruits, and the palms had clusters of large coconuts high in their fronds.  Despair turned to hope.

 She reached the top of the hill and was able to see the entire island. It was small, painfully small, little more than a spec on the map. There were no visible signs of habitation or any indications that anyone had ever even set foot on the island. She turned 360 degrees around and peered into the distance, nothing, nothing for as far as the eye could see. She was lost.