~~13~~
He heard the boat leaving the pier too late. He ran up the beach on the east side of the island where he had been exploring most of the morning. The jungle directly under the palms was as thick as a wall, but he followed his tracks, turning into the brush where a path led to his back patio. He ran around the house just in time to see George speeding away. Edward kept running. When his bare feet hit the wood planks of the pier, he started calling out and waving. He stopped at end and stood next to five supply boxes.
“Wait! I got no power! George, wait, come back!”
George must have sensed Edward behind him. He turned back in his bucket hat, and when he saw Edward motioning, he replied with a lazy wave of one hand over his shoulder. Edward could see a fat joint in his mouth. A white puff formed in front of George’s face to be immediately dispelled in the wind. George turned back to steer his boat out the bay, his boat soon out of view behind the western dues.
“I got no power,” Edward said to himself. He looked down at the contents of the boxes, counting the frozen items that would spoil in a day.
“Looks like barbecued chicken for dinner.” He began moving the boxes to the patio where they would at least have the shade of the palms.
“If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.” He began whistling New York, New York.
Now that he had lunch and dinner sitting the boxes on the patio, he found himself staring off at the island across the inlet. Man needs goals, he thought to himself. He took out two oranges from a bag in one box, went out to the beach and sat where the surf just reached his feet. He peeled and ate the orange, wedge by wedge, throwing peelings into the water, looking out at the rippling surface. The distance across the inlet looked about as wide as the bay, maybe four football fields, four hundred yards.
“I can do it,” he said as he stuffed the last piece of orange into his mouth. When he swallowed, he stood and clapped his hands together.
“Let’s do this.” He stepped into the water up to his knees. “All the way today, all the way today, all the way today.” The water was at his hip when he dove forward, feeling it engulf him. When he emerged, he began swimming at full strength, soon reaching his fishing spot. Dark globs of seaweed and turtle grass passed below where the bottom dropped. He kept up his pace, taking a breath every fourth stroke. The eastern dunes moved down in his winking peripheral. Past the middle of the bay, the waves flopped over him and he increased his speed, taking a breath every two strokes now.
He reached the mouth of the bay where the bottom fell away into the abyss and the water darkened. The only color came on the stampede of waves around him, foamy, translucent green tips. The whitecaps lifted and dropped him. He kicked and brought his arms around heavily. It took more force to pull himself forward. Going over the tip of each wave was like diving into the water over and over again. It killed his momentum and he found himself feeling winded.
He kept digging, digging into the water, more to climb than for propulsion. Stroke, stroke, stroke. He continued blindly now not bothering to look up at where he was headed. When he did open his eyes, it was to gauge how far the shore was. It turned and looked ahead. Somehow, he had managed to get to the dead center of the inlet, and – after swimming at full power as fast as he could across the bay and chop – he was exhausted.
Edward opened his mouth to take in a gulp of air just as a large wave came crashing down, stinging his eyes. He caught the water in his throat, and began coughing it up. He kicked out with his feet, suddenly feeling his body sinking. His arms slapped the surface, his legs scissored. He strained just to keep his head above the surface. I can’t make it. The voice inside him was abrupt. And then it felt like the whole idea of swimming was ridiculous – even fish didn’t stay on the surface. Was he insane for even considering it?
You idiot.
Pain erupted in his right calf. He kicked out with his left leg and glanced up at the island as the biting pain of his exertion gripped his arms. He coughed and kicked, relying entirely on his one good leg. The fear of going under made him work harder. The waves kept coming. Relentlessly they slapped him down and to the side. His right calf muscle locked. He curled his body to reach the cramp. He cried out just under the surface. His scream muffled by liquid.
His body sank. Seawater burned his eyes as he saw blurry particles floating through beams of sunlight. The water flowed into the bay. He should not have started swimming at the very back. If he had started on the beach at the mouth, the distance to the island would have been halved and he would still have his strength. His leg became taut in the silence and he squeezed it with both hands as if choking it. He spent a few seconds trying to work out the charley horse, his other foot touching the coldness below a thermocline. Soon he was out of juice and breath. With the stinging pain in his chest, he brought his arms up toward the light, like someone reaching for a high tree branch. He kicked and the pain exploded in his leg. He brought down both arms, pulling himself up. Somehow, his face broke the surface. He coughed, took in one gulp of air and then slipped back under.
He had heard about people dying, watching their life flash before them. It was strange, as he sank, he didn’t think about the past. The sun, inches away, shimmered blindingly over his head. He swallowed and forced himself not to cough. He swung his arms again, butterfly-like. His hands broke the surface. His heart beat in his ears, lungs burning. Images of his sketches flashed before him. Would someone find them after he went missing? Would they find his body or would it be lost forever? Would they think he had gone insane and run off into the Amazon? If they knew he was dead, would his artwork be more appreciated? Perhaps they’d put it in a local museum. Maybe his tragic end would cause a deeper examination of all that shit he produced in college. Perhaps he’d get an article in the Times: Artist’s Love for Caribbean Lives on After Death.
The sea dipped, his good leg kicked and his face broke the surface to taste air. The sea rose and covered him again, wind and his gagging violently muted. Then the sunlight disappeared and he wondered if his eyes were giving out for lack of oxygen.
He reached up wildly. His hands might have been above the surface – he didn’t know. They were swinging over his head like mad snakes. He needed to cough, to breathe, and he couldn’t. Take it in, his body demanded. But his mind fought on.
His hand hit something – a fish perhaps. Then something gripped his left wrist – a hand. He was pulled, and at first, in his frantic state, he fought this action. He reached out, grabbed at what was above, and found his fingers over the side of a boat.
A blue boat.
“What the hell are you doin?”
Edward coughed, gulped air and wheezed.
“Swimming.”
“Is that what you call it?”
The woman was lying over the side of her boat. Her long hair hung down in disarray, water dripping off the end. Her shirt was wet and in places the thin material stuck to her chest and bikini top underneath. Her eyes were wide and nervous.
“Where did you come from?”
“I saw you splashin like a crazy fish over here and came up on you. Damn lucky I saw you.”
“Yeah.” It was all he could get out between gasps.
“Get in,” she said.
“OK.”
She helped him in, pulling him over the side. Edward dropped in and sat on the floor next to a lobster trap. She fell into a seat, and they looked at each other for a minute while catching their breaths.
“You saved my life.”
“I just pulled you up.”
“No.” He filled his lungs. “Really,” he said as he breathed out and nodded. His hands shook as he wiped back his hair. “I think I’m supposed to be your servant now, like, forever.”