The sea stretches out before me, an endless, undulating blue mass, with sunlight glittering like diamonds off the bouncing chop. Under different circumstances, the sheer beauty of it would take my breath away. But I’m not admiring the view. I’m searching for land. Or a boat. Or rocks. Anything.
The glare of the midday sun makes it almost impossible to see and the dinghy’s bobbing isn’t helping matters. Squinting through my sunburn-swollen eyelids is already task enough without the constant jockeying up-and-down. Grunting, I slide back down into the grimy water pooling at the bottom of the life boat.
“See anything, Carol?” Gordo’s ragged voice drifts from the other side of the boat.
“No, nothing.”
Gordo falls silent. Good. His constant talking has been an annoyance since the Little Lady went down two, maybe three, days ago. Gordo saved my life, though, I have to give him that. After the rogue wave smashed into us, I’d gotten tangled in the jib lines and would have perished like Carla and Max, sucked down in to the sinking boat’s vortex, if he hadn’t freed me in time.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like him.
We’d set sail from Sanibel on a bright, breezy morning. Gordo and I were helping to celebrate the maiden voyage of Carla and Max’s new boat, the Little Lady. The forty-footer was their fifth anniversary present to each other, and they wanted us - their best friends - to celebrate with them. I agreed to go, but only to make Carla happy. It’s not that I disliked sailing; my problem was Gordo. He was not my favorite person. He was
that guy: the one you try to avoid at parties; the guy-who-never-shuts-up.
The last time I saw Carla, she was heading to the galley for drinks. She smiled, her blond curls whipping around her face, and promised to return with a margarita, no ice, salt on the rim. “Be right back, Carol,” she said. I grinned back and waved as Max followed her down into the cabin.
I never saw either of them again.
The wave had come from out of nowhere. I’d been sunning myself on the deck, trying to ignore Gordo, who was blathering on about random marine facts like
did you know you should never drink salt water because it will make you crazy? when suddenly a wall of blue, at least twenty feet high, rose up over the starboard bow. There was no time to warn anyone. No time for anything.
The wave slammed into us, and the Little Lady pitched and shuddered. Then she listed, and I started sliding, my wet fingers clawing at the tilting deck, trying to grab hold of something, anything, to stop my slide. On the way down, I finally snagged a rope. But it was too late; the boat rolled sharply onto its side, plunging me into the chilly waters of the Gulf.
My next memories are of flailing and choking. Somehow in the chaos, the rope had coiled tightly around my wrist, and was dragging me downward as the Little Lady started to sink. My lungs were filling with water. I was drowning. And then Gordo was there, disentangling the rope from my wrist, the life boat tethered to his ankle and drifting behind him. We climbed into it, coughing up water, just as the Little Lady creaked and groaned and sank, the white of the hull growing smaller and smaller on the way down. We watched in horror as the boat and our friends disappeared into the blackness.
Gordo and I have been adrift now for the past two days. Or it might be three. It’s hard to tell.
Our conditions are dire. We’ve rationed the water from the lone bottle stowed in the raft. There was no food, so we haven‘t eaten since we set sail. The hunger gnaws at my insides constantly, as if my stomach has given up and is now feeding upon itself. My lips are so dry and cracked from exposure, I can barely stand to move them, and we’re both badly burned from the sun, with blisters that have broken open, oozing and infected. The itching is maddening.
“You know, Carol, vinegar would stop the itching,” Gordo says as I pick at a bloodied sore.
“We don’t
have any vinegar.”
“I know, but I’m just saying. Vinegar is an anti-inflammatory, so it helps take the itch out. Like with bee stings. And jellyfish stings and . . . ”
“Shut
up!”
They say that extreme circumstances bring out the best in people. I’m still waiting for that to happen with Gordo. Or maybe with me, because while he’s yammering on incessantly, I’m irritably wishing I were here alone.
There’s a little water left, about a quarter of a bottle, and I allow him a swallow. I’ve put myself in charge of rationing our water. Hopefully, we’ll be rescued soon.
“Tastes like fine wine,” Gordo says, a strained attempt at humor. His grip is weak as he passes the bottle back to me. I’m weak, too. My arms feel like lead. It’s hard to lift them. Surely a boat will pass by sometime soon. The unrelenting sun beats down and I drift off to sleep.
Squawking. Lots of squawking. My blistered eyelids open reluctantly, confused about the racket. Dragging myself up, I peer over the side of the boat. About ten feet away, a flock of seagulls are diving and pecking at what appears to be the carcass of a whale. A baby whale, judging by its small size. Perhaps a porpoise. Its white belly protrudes up through the waves even as the birds land and peel away flesh with their beaks.
A whale carcass.
Food.
Leaning over the side, I start paddling, using my arms as oars. “Gordo! Wake up, help me.”
Gordo murmurs. “What?”
“Get up,
dammit! Food! Help me paddle!” If I were stronger, I’d
smack him into action, but it’s all I can do to splash weakly with my hands. This is our chance. Food means survival. Finally, the boat shifts as Gordo takes position and leans into the water, splashing along with me. We’re making progress.
We’ve scared off the gulls. They’re hovering angrily overhead, flapping at us and screeching complaints. But we’re too enthralled with the prospect of food to notice or care. The carcass floats close, barely poking above the surface, and Gordo reaches out, his torso stretched awkwardly over the edge of the dinghy.
“Careful, Gordo.”
“Almost . . . there,” he grunts. The gulls decide not to fight the battle, and fly off. Excitement ripples through my body. The food is all ours.
But something’s not quite right. Seaweed surrounds the carcass, floating in ribbons and draped in strips over the bloated belly of the beast. But the colors are all wrong. Even I know that seaweed is green or brown. This seaweed is light blue and a faded color that looks like it used to be red. Just like . . .
The clothes that Max was wearing.
Just as Gordo grabs the mushy flesh of the belly, the carcass swings around, and Max’s half-eaten face bobs to the surface. His eyes are gone, and shredded tissue flaps lazily in the surf. I scream, and Gordo jumps up, releasing his grip on the body. Then Gordo is teetering, losing his balance as he stands upright in the boat. His arms twirl as he tries to regain his balance, but then he’s spiraling backwards, his face a mask of terror as he topples over the side, falling into the water with a splash.
“Gordo!” I cry, leaning over the edge. “Take my hand!” I reach out to him just as he goes under. My own weakened body reminds me that he also doesn’t have strength. Will I be able to pull him in? His head and shoulders surface and Gordo gasps for breath. I stretch out as far as I dare, begging Gordo to take my hand, praying that he won’t pull me in too. But Gordo coughs and his eyes roll up into his head just before he disappears again. And then he is gone.
“Gordo!” I scream his name and scramble around the raft, peering out, hoping he’s resurfaced elsewhere. But he doesn‘t. Crying, exhausted, I sink down into the boat. My eyes can’t squeeze out any tears. I hardly notice as Max’s body floats off, becoming a meal for the gulls once again. They resume their feast as I huddle in the bow of the boat, sobbing.
Like Carla and Max, Gordo’s been swallowed up by the sea. I am alone.
Nightfall comes. The sea is black and the air is still. There is no moon, so there is no light. The darkness closes in, smothering me, stifling my breath. The water laps gently against the boat. A far away splash startles me. I shiver in fear but also from the cold. There is no one to comfort me. Gordo was here the other nights, sometimes talking, sometimes just sleeping. The difference was I knew he was there. How I wish he were here now. I wish he was talking incessantly about stupid things. I wish I’d been nicer to him. I wish I wasn’t alone.
I resolve to stay awake, but exhaustion overcomes me.
The drinking water is gone, and my mouth is parched, scratchy and raw, as if someone has filled it with hot sand. The salty brine splashing up over the dinghy’s bow looks deliciously wet. Thirst-quenching. But I know I shouldn’t drink it. Something bad could happen. What was it Gordo had said? I can’t remember. I was trying not to listen at the time. Something about not drinking it, about going crazy. I try not to stare at the droplets of fresh seawater trickling down the walls.
Another day drags on. Interminable heat. Burning skin. The blisters hardly bother me anymore, because all I’m obsessed with is water. I need to drink. I’m going to die if I don’t. I could fill the bottle with my urine and drink that but I haven’t been able to pee. Not since the first day when I still had the strength to squat over the side. How stupid I’d been then.
What could one small sip hurt? I lean heavily over the side of the raft, scoop up a palmful of water and lift it to my lips. The salt stings but I drink anyway. For one glorious moment, the seawater is sweet and cool and soothes the cracked interior of my mouth. Then the sweetness wears off and I swallow and gag, nearly puking the seawater up the moment it hits my stomach. But I keep it down. That’s all I drink, though. My thirst is not quenched.
“I told you not to drink salt water.”
I whirl around. Gordo grins at me from the stern of the boat. He is perched on the edge at the far end.
“Gordo!” My voice comes out as little more than a whisper, and I crawl on all fours across the boat to reach him. It makes no sense that he’s back, but reason doesn’t count here. I am relieved that he’s back. Relieved and . . . joyful.
He slides down the wall and I gape at him. “Gordo, how are you here? How did you get back?”
“Carol, I never left,” he says patiently. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
I squint at him. His blisters are gone; his sunburn faded. “No, Gordo, I saw you fall into the water. I saw you drown.”
Gordo shakes his head. “Carol, you’ve been hallucinating. You only thought I drowned. You’ve been in and out of it for days.”
“Days?” I’m confused now, but decide Gordo must be right. Frankly, I don’t care what is reality and what isn’t anymore. I’m not alone! Slowly I settle down across from him, almost not daring to blink, for fear that he’ll disappear again. But the sun’s rays are vicious, and I can’t keep them open for too long.
“Gordo?”
“Yes?”
“Will you talk to me?”
“About what?”
“I don’t care. Anything. Everything. Just let me know you’re here.” And I mean it. As much as I loathed Gordo’s nonsensical chatter before, nothing sounds better to me now.
He sighs. “Okay. Hmmm. Well, do you know how those world champion hot-dog-eaters train for competition? It’s quite interesting. Every day for a year, they consume eight quarts of water and . . . “ Gordo’s voice drones on and on about unimportant facts and random thoughts. Yet I’m no longer annoyed. I’m comforted by Gordo’s voice. By his presence.
If I die tonight, at least I won’t die alone.
+++++
Brilliant lights blind me, stabbing painfully as my eyes flicker open. They’re blurry, and take a moment to adjust to the brightness of the room. A woman in white stands over me, peering into my face.
“She’s coming out of it.”
Her kindly face hovers over me. A stethoscope hangs from her neck. Another face appears, this one a man; he is also dressed in white.
“Well, hello there, Carol. How are you feeling?” the man asks.
“Where am I?” I whisper weakly. My voice is nothing but a whisper, and it hurts to talk.
“You’re in the hospital, Carol. Do you remember what happened?”
Fuzzy memories come back. Carla and Max. The Little Lady. The horror of watching helplessly as the boat plunged to the depths of the Gulf. Days and nights adrift in the life boat. Gordo. My heart compresses with grief over the loss of my friends.
“Where’s Gordo?” I ask.
The two kindly faces share a glance across the bed.
“Where’s Gordo?” I repeat, and struggle to rise up. The woman gently presses my shoulders back down. It doesn’t take much; I am too weak to protest.
“You were alone in the dinghy when you were found, Carol. There was no one else.”
These words make no sense. “Yes, Gordo was there. He was with me.”
The woman shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, Carol. The marina provided us with the ship log. Max and Carla Westfall, Gordon Franklin and you were all on the Little Lady when she left port last week. But you were the only one found in the life boat. Your friends all perished when the boat sank.”
It can’t be. The last thing I remember is listening to Gordo as he rambled on, his voice comforting me, lulling me to sleep.
“But Gordo was there. He said I’d been hallucinating. That he’d never fallen overboard.”
The man squeezed my hand. “Carol, your tests show that you drank sea water. The overload of salt in your system was causing your kidneys to shut down. Toxins built up in your body. One side-effect is hallucinations. You could have easily imagined that your friend Gordo was in the boat with you.”
The woman nodded. “You’re lucky the fishing trawler came along when it did. A few more hours and you probably wouldn’t be with us today, particularly after you‘d drunk the salt water.”
Gordo had not returned to the life boat. I’d only believed that he had. But in those last hours, Gordo, the-guy-who-never-shuts-up, gave me the comfort and the strength I needed to go on.
The doctors leave me alone to rest. Lying there, with the lights dim and soft sheets up around my chin, I realize how lucky I am to be alive. My friends are gone, but I’ve been given a gift. I resolve to be a better person. I vow to be more patient and kinder to others, to appreciate my friends and family and above all, to be a better listener.
After all, Gordo told me not to drink the salt water.
The End
