“No! No!” I hurl myself towards Isla Fin de la Tierra, kicking with all my might against the flow.
It is no use. The current propels me inexorably out to sea.
Chapter Eighteen
Do not panic. If I exhaust myself against the current, I will drown. I recall a safety tip: The way out of a riptide is to swim diagonally. I aim for the rocky horn, but instead of swimming directly for it I swim at an angle. Several minutes pass; I am even farther from the island than before. This is no ordinary riptide. No matter which angle I swim the current pushes me away from land.
For a moment I float, conserving my energy, wracking my brain for a way out of this predicament. Now I know how a fly trapped inside a pitcher plant feels, struggling in vain to escape a watery death. After Isla Fin de la Tierra the next land mass is Africa on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. I might be able to stay afloat for a few more hours, but eventually I will weaken to a point where I will not be able to keep my head above water. Casting about, I see a black lump on the horizon. Goat Island! It is my only chance. On my current trajectory, I will miss the little rocky isle. Changing course, I take a deep breath, flip over, and swim towards my last hope for survival. Swimming diagonally, I must reach Goat Island before the current sweeps me past it. Hand over hand, feet kicking, I swim for salvation.
Despite my burning muscles and the fatigue that weighs on me, the dread certainty that my determination is the only thing keeping me alive propels me onward. Something brushes against my leg and my blood turns to ice. A moment later something else brushes against me, and this time I feel as though razors sliced my torso. Is it a barracuda? I cannot see a damn thing. How bad am I cut? I touch my skin and cannot find a cut, but the pain remains. It feels like someone worked me over with a box cutter. I hold up my hand to check how badly I am bleeding, but it is too dark to tell.
Gasping for breath, choking as the waves splash water up my nostrils, I focus on the dark outline of Goat Island. Almost there. My knees smacks into something jagged and rough—the outlying coral reef around Goat Island. The waves buffet me onto the reef, scraping my skin. I half-swim and half-crawl over the reef. I cry out from a sudden searing pain in my calf. Reaching down, I feel a hard spine sticking out of my leg. Sea urchins! With my last remaining strength, I drag myself onto the rocky edge of the island. My hand passes over the urchin spine. It pierces clean through the side of my calf. I groan in horror, but steady my trembling hand and slide the spine through. The pain is excruciating. Fortunately, the spine does not break inside me. The bloody hole that remains is relatively small. Crawling on my belly, I inch away from the splashing surf and flip over on my back. To my surprise, and despite my exhaustion, I laugh dementedly.
Sunrise brings a bleak assessment of my situation. What felt during my night swim as if teeth slashed my skin turns out to be the sting of a jellyfish. Pink, puffy scars entwine my torso—vestiges of where the jellyfish tentacles grazed my skin. The pain of the sting has faded, even if the marks remain. Dried blood clots the sea urchin wound. My calf is sore to the touch and painful to put my weight on. None of the wounds is fatal. I will live, though to what ends I am not sure.
Surveying my acre of rocky, sea battered isle, I look across the bay towards the resort. A few people walk about on the beach. From this distance, they are no bigger than dots. They probably cannot see me, but taking no chances; I keep low and out of sight. Right now, the only advantage I have is the fact that my enemies in the resort believe I am dead.
Gwen. What happened to her after Conner chased me into the sea? My imagination begins to run wild. I have to get back to her. But how? To say I am starving is an understatement. Hunger gnaws within my belly like a feral animal trying to claw its way free. Recalling that a goat lives on this island, there is some hope that something edible grows here. Maybe I can kill the goat and eat it. The uneven terrain taxes my strength. Goat Island seems like a collection of massive boulders fused into one. There is no vegetation or fresh water. As for the legendary goat that gave the island its name, a clump of sun-bleached fur and bones are all that remains. I would weep if my body had a drop of moisture to spare for tears.
With each passing hour, the sun becomes more oppressive. On the other hand, the ocean spray from the sea breeze leaves my half-naked body cold and damp. Trapped between shivering and roasting, I retreat to the only available shade at the base of the light tower. With my knees close to my chest, I stare across the bay to the resort. The expanse of water that separates me from the mainland is deceptively serene, betraying no hint of the deadly current just beneath the surface. As the sun shifts, I must move around the tower if I want to remain in the shade. How much longer can I last like this? A day. Two at the most. I escaped drowning only to dehydrate and die like the goat on this inhospitable rock. The wild urge seizes me to leap up and down to draw attention from someone at the resort. I immediately strike the notion from my mind. No one from the resort will sail to rescue me. At best, they will ignore me and leave me to a slow death. At worse, Conner will sail out and finish me off.
The sun sinks lower as the day wears on. I roam the isle again, more to occupy myself rather than any expectation I might find something useful to me. On a rock jutting out into the crashing waves, something shiny catches my eye. I scramble towards it. It is a dead fish, the silvery scales gleaming in the sunlight. Not much of the fish remains. Telltale white feathers and a sun baked, white streak of shit attest to the fact that a seagull found the fish before I did. Flies buzz upon the exposed bones.
Nearly delirious with hunger, I drop to my knees and do what a week before would have been unthinkable. I swish the flies away, pick up the dead fish and, ignoring the fetid smell, peel the skin from the bones. The skin flakes and crackles. I shove the skin into my mouth. Scales scrape my tongue. Fighting the urge to gag, I chew and struggle to swallow it down. The second it touches the back of my throat, my stomach heaves. I hunch over and spit it all out.
I collapse upon the rocks, my breathing shallow, my hands tracing the outline of my ribs. Dry sobs wrack my body. I roll over on the rock and stare into the sea. The white stern of Dawson Hartford’s wreck glows ghost-like under the turquoise waves on the side of the isle. The boat is approximately fifteen feet under. Crawling unsteadily back to my feet, I creep onto the rocks that ring the island. There are gaps in the rocks and the tide surges between them, bursting forth in geysers of white foam, drenching me. I wipe the water from my eyes and see part of the deck and the door behind the captain’s wheel that leads to the sleeping quarters. Perhaps there is canned food on the wreck. The open doorway leading below deck is forebodingly dark. A quick recollection of the ship layout proves I have the exact opposite of a photographic memory. Regardless of the risk that I will swim inside the wreck for nothing, exhausting what little strength I still have, there is no other choice.
Not wanting to lose another minute of daylight, I wade into the water between the rocks and dive for the wreck. The boat lies on its side. I grab hold of the captain’s wheel to propel myself through the doorway. My sudden entrance startles a school of fish hiding within. Because I have no goggles, everything is blurry. I open the nearest cabinet, my hands wandering everywhere since the visibility is so poor. It is empty. Aching for breath, I race for the surface. Growing weaker by the second, I dive again, proceeding farther than before. I open a partially closed closet and let loose a surprised burst of bubbles when a massive, purple moray eel slithers out. As I freeze, the eel—mouth agape and lined with fangs—snakes around my leg and up my torso. Done inspecting me, it swims off. The closet is too dark to reveal its contents, so I risk thrusting my hands in, praying another moray eel does not lurk within. I grab what feels like a steel can, and something rubbery and race to the surface for air.