Drenched

We are drenched.

The wood splinters on either side, its fragments grey and scabbed with barnacles. Those thieves reject any suggestion of co-existence, and my feet slide off. It’s a bad time to think about that one “by God’s design” aphorism mom would always say, but I did not know hand-knit socks could sink.

I grasp your sides– quite slippery, I might add— and gasp mercilessly above your right ear. It is close enough to bite, but the thought of inhaling bloody saltwater is enough to force restraint.

Wake up.

My feet run amok, warning the sea creatures below: this is not a game.

Wake up.

You still can’t hear me.

I stretch one shaky, pleading hand to the flotsam drift. The waves take affront and push back. They despise competition, just as I despise this shivering without respite. On any other day, I might joke it warrants flint stones and daggers. Today was made for begging and prayer.

Wake up.

When did we mess up?

Did we overstay our innocent ignorance– when in those early days we frolicked naked through the city, played hooky and called each other pretty. Dad decried it as apostasy; Mom blamed “childhood.” I call it "made up," since the photos insist you were blond.

Surely not then.

Storm clouds—

As a kid, they were rare. Times change. They have become as unstoppable as my acne, and much more problematic. Like you, I had no choice but to risk the seas.

We were promised safe passage. The skies were windy, but the captain’s credentials were superior to anything we could have hoped for. They handed me a hand-crank radio. If you hadn’t been sitting a foot's scuffle away, I would have realized it was set to a different region's channel.

Wet. A drop of water hits my brow. And another. And another. Rain. Now is not the time to remember that saltwater conducts electricity.

I thought we could weather anything together. Do you remember when we were five, and you convinced me your real parents were mermaids? You kept Buttons as a pet for so long, I assumed it was true. You two look like you share the same faceprint. Especially the tattoo-ish bottom lip. Of course, I couldn’t laugh with you about any of this today. When Buttons disappeared, you stacked the sandbags and never looked back.

It was no one’s fault. I am sorry if I said it was mine.

Blue lightning—

So today, I wasn’t sure it was you. During the boat ride, you kept your face to the water. You were plastered in coats and so withdrawn and quiet, just like the rest of the crew. I couldn’t help but slip in a snarky remark. My head was met with the butt of a pirate’s arm, but it was worth it. I got a slight smile from you.

My damp skin regrets all the memories. Your warmth beside me now is a threat. Relaxation will not beat the current.

The waves stumble for a moment– I armpit hug a boulder-size piece of shrapnel. The woodrot and the grime engrave my fingers with loving cuts. I kiss the shifting ground instinctively, even if it is just a battered, brittle bit of ship.

One battle down, one more to go.

I suppose I must be turning red. I have to stop you from turning blue.

I press your chest and hold my breath, then lean forward so our lips align.

Staying alive.

Another press. Another breath.

Stay with me.

Your cousins await you across the Atlantic.

Hold on.

One more pump—

Good.

You cough and flop onto your stomach. I would, too, but the groans of the ocean’s afternoon snack quell my appetite. I can avoid looking at the bodies, but I cannot avoid the stench, except with distance and time. I pick a direction and paddle.

And stop.

Against the empty sky, the splash is less remarkable than a blink; amidst the murky water, our commotion attracts the ocean’s most unwanted. Advice from long ago surfaces: Hold still.

I have to confess: the presence of sharks coming for leftovers is pacifying for someone like me, someone awake.

Could we survive adrift? I might float alone. Entangled in a mass of sargassum and half-conscious you, less likely— while sidestepping your kicking legs, impossible.

I take a deep breath.

The driftwood is big enough to fit one full-size human. Your hair swims, but the parts worth protecting are all on-board.

I let go.

I’ve heard people describe floating like an out-of-body experience. I wish that were true.

Warm clouds of red stir up around my heels and wrists. The appendages themselves sting. Bad.

That’s bad.

I hope it's not the reason the shark turns to face me.

Even underwater, maybe three strokes away, embedded in debris, the lifejacket reflects light. Too bad sharks have no need to float.

It tears the fabric in two, then thrashes to the left to snatch some dinner.

Hold still.

The nose is rubbery and lacks ornamentation. The button eyes and yarn-like lip are the only decoration. Its teeth flake off with bits of skin belonging to the Captain. I know it’s her because the gun left an impression on me. I guess such a fate goes both ways.

Will he turn around?

I gape with my mouth shut.

Buttons-he could be nobody else– pushes past and away.

Are we really alive?

My lungs can wait no longer to find out. I rise.

You are exactly where I left you. Your eyes are open now, and they brighten, I assume to match mine.

“Buttons is—”

A salty man-eater? A nightmare? Our savior?

You cover your ears at my onslaught, but sit up and make space for me. Your warm embrace is most welcome. Neither of us want to go back.

Are we pre-destined to live or die together? Only the creator knows for sure. But if I have any say in the matter: by God, we will survive.

And by God’s throne in the sky, an answer– careening onto and bouncing off our makeshift love couch.

The hymn of a sailor— a Drunken Sailor— dives in after it.

Our hands dip into the water as one.

Out of reach—

The current will shore the buoy soon. It knows when it has lost.

In the meantime, I hope you don't mind if I fall asleep in your arms.