Gareth watched one head bobbing and sinking in the water and the wild arm-flapping of a non-swimmer. The head went down and didn’t reappear. The white ship took on more water and rode lower, rolling sluggishly. The railing that had been so high earlier now looked even with the little fishing boat. Gareth felt no sense of victory. Instead, he felt the fear that such a thing might happen to them. Now Tom could guide the fishing boat at a slower speed and take them out into deeper water. He never considered rescuing the men from the sinking white boat.
“Keep your eyes ahead,” Tom ordered.
One glance showed they were in trouble. Tides had pushed the fishing boat too far to one side. Directly in front of them swirled a mass of foam and breaking water, jagged rocks protruded like daggers waiting to slice open the wooden hull. Gareth frantically pointed to his right, willing the fishing boat to turn from the danger. Their direction slowly changed as Tom threw the tiller over, but more rocks appeared directly ahead. It was too late. Gareth waved for them to turn left with wild swings of his arm, but felt the first rasp of wood scraping on rock and gripped the line in his hand with all he had.
A swell lifted the boat and for an instant he thought it might carry them to safety as they floated safely over the rocks, but the water receded. The hull slammed down on the jagged rock as if it had fallen from the sky. The impact twisted the boat to one side and threw Gareth off.
His feet entered the water first, as Tom had told him to do, although he had no control of what landed first. His left foot touched, and slipped on the slime-coated rocks. His right foot plunged deeper into the cold water and suddenly he found himself pulled under. He fought to find the surface. Another wave lifted him and carried him for long seconds before depositing him in deeper, but calmer water. Gareth managed to right himself into a swimming position, and he managed to take two full strokes before another swell lifted and pushed him closer to shore as it washed over him. He swallowed salt water and gagged, but managed to pull a deep breath of air before another wave crashed over him.
Between swells, he tried to orient himself. He managed to tread water while turning a full circle, searching for Tom, but only saw the fishing boat breaking up on the rocks, already half sunk. Several hull planks had been ripped off, and water rushed inside. Further, behind he saw the white boat sinking fast, only the bow remained exposed. A few men still crowded the deck, most others were swimming.
“Tom?” He listened as he searched, and called again, “Tom!”
Gareth waited until another swell raised him higher and he quickly spun around. He didn’t see the old man, but he did see the point of land where Tom said they were to meet. Fear tried to force him to swim to the nearest beach, but reason turned him to his right, towards the finger of land. He began to stroke, slow and steady. Tide, wind, and waves pushed him aside as if he was a leaf in a puddle during a storm, but he continued. He adjusted the egg so it hung around his neck in a manner giving him more freedom to swim, and he found he could use the incoming waves to push him in the direction of the shore, with a lot less effort than swimming for the point of land that was his destination. He took the path of less resistance, with reaching the shore, any shore, his goal.
Once he saw a man swimming directly at him. Gareth quickly turned and put distance between them. The shore came at him faster as the swells turned into breaking waves. They spun and rolled him as they struck time after time. Finally, he felt his feet touch sandy bottom. He shielded the egg with his arms to prevent it from scraping the bottom. As he tried to stand in shallower water, another wave hit him from behind and threw him down, face first. He felt the scrape of rough sand on the side of his face.
Gareth stumbled ashore tired, winded, and confused. On his knees at the water’s edge, he drew several deep breaths, gathered a portion of his wits, and tried to control his rising panic. Rough sand the color of aged cider covered the beach. He spit salt water and wiped stinging eyes, then lifted his head and recalled why he was here.
Tom! He had forgotten the old man. Gareth staggered to his feet and looked along the edge of the shoreline first, then to the deeper water. No sight of him. A few hundred paces down the beach someone paddled hard and fought to swim the last few feet to the edge of the surf. He fell and was pushed onto the beach by the next wave.
Not Tom.
An enemy. Gareth dropped to the ground. Behind him, further ashore, rose low hills of tan colored sand, shades whiter than the sand near the water. Tangles of vines covered part of the slopes. If he could reach them, he might be able to hide behind them, as well as keep watch on the beach for his friend.
His fingers touched the bag and felt the egg inside. There seemed to be no damage. He could examine it later.
Gareth saw no nearby shrubs or rocks to conceal him, so he sprinted across the heavy sand as well as his stumbling gait could carry him. After only a few steps, his breath came in angry gasps, and his legs burned with the effort of running in soft sand. Each step pulled. He looked over his shoulder and spotted another man who had partially washed ashore, still lying face down, head under water. A man carrying his sword staggered in the shallows, much farther down the beach. He clung to the sword as if he didn’t even know it was there. Gareth scrambled up the nearest slope, fighting for each step in the loose sand. The faster he tried to run, the more his feet sank and prevented it. The vines growing higher up the hillside provided better footing and he managed to reach the top without falling again.
Gareth crouched on the top of the sand dune and looked down at the shoreline extending to the far horizon in either direction. The waves still beat against the land, one after the other, and debris from both boats floated in the water, some looking like drowned men. On the beach, near the water’s edge, he counted six of the pirates, none Tom. Three were grouped together, confused and helpless, appearing injured. A pair lay in the sand at the water’s edge further away, and each brush of a wave stirred them, but neither reacted and they were certainly dead. A lone man stood in knee deep water and looked out to sea as if he was as lost as the sinking white boat, probably in disbelief that such a thing could have happened.
Gareth settled deeper into the soft sand and rearranged some of the nearby vines to shield his face from sight below. The sun felt hot on his back, and the reflection of sunlight off the sand made him squint. He made a systematic search of the surf nearest the beach and examined everything floating, looking for Tom. If I do see him, then what? Run down and rescue him?
When he didn’t spot Tom nearby, he looked to deeper water. Out behind the breaking waves, wreckage drifted. Men clung to a few. The rounded bottom of Tom’s fishing boat sat high on the rocks, rocking with the passing swells. Only a few feet of it floated above the surface of the water. He searched the water nearby again for Tom.
Another man swam ashore, and the three in a group moved to help him. Now there were four men looking healthy enough they could begin a search for Gareth. Five, if the man watching the water came to his wits and joined them. Gareth touched the bag containing the egg.
A dog barked. From the sound, it was a large one. He didn’t see it, but the bark came from the beach. His eyes roamed the water’s edge again, he paused when he saw a finger of sand and rock sticking out like a beacon. There! Tom had told him to meet him there. Then he spotted the dog, a large breed, just arriving on the beach with a wave pushing it as it trotted ashore as if it had enjoyed the swim.