The Way to Land

The Way to Land

Coughing, Charles lay sprawled in the lifeboat, trying to not think about how thirsty he was. Ocean salt stung his cracked lips, and the tide rocked his craft—sloshing, dripping. His seaclothes weighed him down, sapping his warmth and leaving gooseflesh behind. Overhead, the moon shone, lighting the dark water.

His lips itched and throbbed, throat burning. Days before, he had been at the water barrel aboard the Monarch, drinking fresh water and talking with friends. Now, his throat constricted at the memory of the water, longing for a drink to salve his pain. Just a sip.

Thinking back on the wreck of the Monarch, he hazily remembered seeing the ship’s water barrels, bobbing in the water…alongside the bodies of his friends floating nearby. Bile filled his mouth as he remembered passing the pale corpses on his way to the lifeboat. The sour taste of stale biscuits and chunks of ham caught in his throat, irritating the inflamed flesh as he fought to force the images away.

His stomach heaving, Charles pushed himself up and emptied the contents of his nearly empty stomach, the remnants of his last meal pulled away by the current. His mind had been stretched thin since the wreck; he couldn’t have prevented himself from vomiting if he even wanted to. When the convulsions had passed, his thirst reasserted itself.

He licked his lips, looking at the water.

“Maybe,” he thought, his lips stinging and bleeding. “Drinking some wouldn’t be bad, right?”

No! Charles forced himself to stay where he was. Dehydration was playing tricks on his senses. Not only would the water itself make every second of it agony, but it would not satiate his need for water. If he was to drink, it had to be fresh.

Saw land yesterday…Right? Charles leaned back into the boat, his mind growing dim with exhaustion. .

How long had it been since the Monarch went down? He squinted, trying to force his exhausted mind to work through the question. The days on the sea dragged by painfully slow—and sometimes, they seemed to pass in a blink. Five days, maybe more, he thought.

Overhead, the dark clouds rumbled, thunder echoing across the quiet. Charles cast his eyes upward, hoping for a rainstorm—another chance at freshwater and another day of life.

But… His mouth twisted. Considering how the waves had shoved and yanked at his boat, he didn’t know if he could last for another storm, much less get a drink. Keeping himself inside the boat was taxing. Without energy to sustain his efforts, his already fatigued body would betray him to a watery death.

Visceral memories filled his mind: the sharp crack of wood splitting, the screams of his friends and crew lost in panic, the deafening roar of thunder. Why he had survived when everyone else died remained a mystery.

He remembered fighting through the clashing waves,pushing towards a lone plank near a lifeboat. In a semi-conscious haze, he had clung to the wood until, luckily, the lifeboat had floated to a place where he could pull himself in. With strength he didn’t know he had, Charles had clambered into the boat and collapsed, unconscious.

Pushing himself to a sitting position, he scanned the horizon, searching for a shoreline. Silvered moonlight cascaded through the clouds, reflecting on the water.

Nothing… Charles slumped back to the planks, sighing. Dense shadows covered everything the moon missed. And without a spyglass, all he would do was strain his eyes.

Yet the night was the only safe time to search. Even now, his eyes burned—sunglare, his crewmates called it. During the day, he could barely look for land.

I can’t give up. Grunting, Charles gritted his teeth and sat up again. There has to be something out there.

Please, Lord, he turned his eyes towards heaven, eyes misting. If you provide a way to escape this fate, I will take it. Amen.

Finishing his prayer, Charles forced himself to sit up again. An old proverb that his mother had taught him came to his mind: God will not help those who do not help themselves.

White flashed in the clouds overhead, casting silver light across the ocean. A cold breeze ruffled Charles’s hair. Rain began to patter down on his shoulder and neck, a light misting. His boat, which had been drifting in the current, shifted more as the waves began to stir, undulating beneath him.

There has to be land somewhere! Charles scanned the horizon, shielding his eyes from the rain to see clearly. According to the maps on the Monarch, the Halapon Islands were only half a day’s travel from where the ship had sunk. The current had been carrying him in that general direction, but fatigue had driven that thought from his mind.

Distantly, more thunder illuminated a dark mass—a shoreline.

Less than a mile away.

The short distance was tantalizing. Charles quickly scanned the water for driftwood—anything to serve as a paddle. Tossing waves threw up splashes of sea mist that stung his lips and eyes. He blinked the brine away, but nothing usable floated around his boat.

Charles groaned as he contemplated his options. Swimming would prove impossible. Glancing at the water roiling around his boat, he saw himself hitting the water, the coldness closing over his head. His face paled at the thought of bobbing in the sea like his crewmates—easy prey for sharks.

He looked at his hands. “No other way,” He moved to the bow of the boat, leaning over the increasingly turbulent water.

A massive shadow loomed over Charles as he leaned over the boat’s bow. He glanced up just in time to see a wave the size of a small whale crash into him. The impact of the wall of water punched him off of the bow and into the sea. His hand connected with his boat as he was thrown out; something snapped. The coldness of the water pushed his breath out of his body.

Charles sank, the ocean’s fury fading to faint noise. His momentum pulled him downward, a thousand prickling needles jabbing into his skin. His heart pounded. He had lost his boat, and one of his hands was broken. For several moments, the thought of dying sank into his mind, like the chill of the ocean water. There was no escaping it. Not only was his boat gone, but his ability to swim had been severely impaired. And if he were to survive, how would he live without the use of one of his hands? Because of his short time in the employ of the Monarch, he hadn’t had a chance to learn how to take care of broken bones.

Then the memory of his prayer seared through the cold subterranean depths. Despite the seeming futility of his efforts, he knew that God had prepared a way for him.

Instinctively, he swam upwards, his broken hand screaming with pain. Whatever his fate, he could at least breathe while contemplating it.

Charles broke the surface.

The wave had propelled him towards shore. Waves crashed around him as he treaded water. The currents pulled him this way and that. The shock of the cold water crashing over his face brought more clarity to his mind, more strength. To his dismay, the remnants of his lifeboat floated around him. Meanwhile, the pain of his hand drifted to the back of his mind: there would be time to take care of his injury if he got to shore.

Not if. He corrected himself. When.

Breathing raggedly, Charles judged that he could swim to safety. His captain had made him and his crewmates practice swimming to and from the ship at about a mile distance. His breaths came out in puffs of cold smoke. A wave surged above him, submerging him momentarily. His head broke the surface.

Steeling himself, he began to swim towards shore. Left, right, left, right. The rhythm of his movements helped focus his mind away from the pain in his hand. Warmth began to creep back into his muscles as he closed the distance between himself and the shore.

The storm assailed him on all sides: waves buffeting him; rain downpouring on him, obscuring his vision. Using his senses trained by years working as a sailor, Charles disregarded all of the distractions, instead focusing on putting one arm in front of the other.

Behind him, a large wave overpowered him, making him lose his concentration and stroke. He tumbled underneath the waves, feeling wet sand.

The surf.

Despite his excitement, Charles could only crawl on his elbows. He tracked furrows in the sand, inching toward the mainland. Darkness was bleeding into his peripheral vision. His head pounded with pain. A tingling lethargy crept through his limbs.

He lay on the sand, too exhausted to find shelter. But deep in his heart, he knew he had found the path God had given him.