We Float Upon a Painted Sea

Andrew woke at first light to the sound of heavy rain pummelling the canopy of the life raft. The previous night had been a bleak experience for him. When Bull finally stopped snoring he had felt desperately alone, floating in the darkness with his ear tuned to the silence. He had only managed a few hours of broken sleep. From underneath the raft he felt an unnerving rumble, like a far off explosion or distant roll of thunder. Similar to what he had felt back on the ship, he thought, but not as powerful to completely rouse Bull from his sleep. He moved towards the aperture and looked out, wondering what to expect. Nothing but slate grey sea. He waited anxiously for a wave which never came.

Andrew attempted to piece together the series of events leading up to the sinking of the Andrea Starlight. How long after the tremor did it take for the wave to arrive? He had been on deck, taking an evening stroll and brooding over the dark islands stretched out over the horizon. He felt an unsettling growl from under the ship and quickly became aware of a strong wind on the nape of his neck. He hadn’t seen the wave coming but he had heard screaming passengers and the alarm sounding. He had held on to the grab rails for as long as his strength would allow, then he was thrown forward and into the sea. His world had gone black. Seconds later he was submerged in the sea, tumbling and struggling in the churning cold waters. He had dithered, becoming distracted by the unfolding scene. The sea was giving up its victims. His world had stalled, skidding into a slow motion drama and all around him the muffled shouts for help filled the air. At last, the panic within him had subsided with the acceptance of his desperate fate. He wondered how long until hypothermia set in and death took him. The floating wreckage coiled on the surface of the sea, coalescing with several bloated corpses and then drifting by in the current like a funeral procession.

Andrew’s attention had been drawn towards a struggling woman. She reminded him of his ex-wife. He swam closer to her. One of her hands had gripped a piece of floating wreckage, the other remained still. He winced when he remembered the fragments of bone protruding from her exposed arm. Her hair had seemed tousled and matted on her face, obstructing her sight, and then she was gone. He had dived down searching for her but returned empty handed. He had treaded water, his eyes darting between the swells when the life raft came into view. He swam towards it. His body wracked with fatigue, he had managed to pull himself up and through the aperture. The only other survivor onboard was unconscious. An old man with a head wound. He had busied himself tending to the man’s wound and checking emergency supplies in an effort to keep the feelings of desperation at bay. But once the initial distractions were taken care of the black mist had descended to overwhelm him.

The wave would have hit them by now, concluded Andrew. Before turning away from the aperture he was distracted by the sight of a tennis ball, floating close to the raft. He reached out and grabbed it. Cutting the ball in half with his multi-tool, he made two cups. He filled one cup with rainwater from the rain catch bladder and drank. He checked on Malcolm’s condition, changed his bandages and then lay back against one of the pontoons. Bull was lying at his feet, curled into the foetal position and trying to keep the chilled air from biting into his body. Some people act irrational and out of character, he thought. He had his voices, acting like a pressure relief valve, he thought. Was it possible the Englishman’s annoying behaviour was a reaction to the dawning realisation he was the victim of an incident, or was he merely naive? Survival situations can bring out the best or the worst in a person, but a leader always emerged. He recalled the military training exercises where he had taught cadets how to filter muddied water by using a plastic bottle packed with sphagnum moss, how to catch and skin rabbits, build fires, erect shelters, and fend off relentless midge attacks by extracting an oil from bog myrtle leaves. He had relished survival situations in the most challenging of environments, but could he compare his time spent in the Northumberland wilderness to his current situation? He decided the same principles would apply. The situation had been forced upon him. It required someone to step forward and take command. The leadership issue was a pragmatic choice rather than a means to extract authority. He smiled, feeling pleased with his dabbler piece of field psychology. Andrew took hold of the improvised bailer and scooped water from the floor of the raft. A sudden sharp pain emanated from one of his prolapsed haemorrhoids. There was time for a quick relieving scratch before Bull stirred from his slumber and caught him with his hand down the back of his trousers.

Later in the morning, Andrew ignored Bull’s waking questions. Wasn’t it obvious enough they hadn’t been rescued yet? Why would he know anything about an earlier vibration from beneath the raft? Did it matter what time of day it was? Andrew had many tales of heroism itching to be told. He glared down at Bull’s form to find he had fallen back into a sleep. Andrew was too animated to let the moment slide. He directed a swift kick towards him. At first Bull didn’t flinch so he flicked stagnant seawater on his face. Again he failed to rouse him. He kicked him one more time, only harder. Bull cried out in shock rather than pain.

“Did you just kick me? Asked Bull, stirring from his sleep, “I was having a nice dream about being back home for Sunday dinner. We were all down the Pig having a few pints, roast chicken and Yorkshire pudding…” Andrew interrupted him by pressing a forefinger to his lips. He said,

“I didn’t want to mention it yesterday, but I’ve been in a similar situation and survived.” Bull rubbed his eyes. He felt queasy and his muscles ached from the yesterday’s ordeal. He was in no mood to talk. His mouth was parched, his head throbbed and his stomach made pleading noises to be fed.

“Where’s the water?” He said searching with his hand around the floor of the raft. Andrew filled one of the tennis ball cups with the water from the plastic bladder and passed it to Bull.

“It tastes like donkey piss.” said Bull, screwing his face up in disgust.

“I wouldn’t know, unlike you, I’ve never tasted donkey piss and hopefully will never have to. It is clean water, it’s safe to drink and it will keep us alive until we get rescued.”

“Are you sure you didn’t take a piss in it?”

“No, why would I urinate in the drinking water?” Bull shrugged his shoulders, unable to come up with a plausible reason. He handed back the cup and said,

“So what exactly was so important you had to wake me up?” Andrew coughed to clear his throat. He licked his dry lips and said,

“I was once marooned on an island with my uncle and brother. Our yacht capsized. I suppose it was my fault. I forgot to shout, ready to jibe! And my Uncle Alasdair got hit on the head with the swinging boom. It knocked him overboard and into the drink. He was unconscious and it was up to me to save him. You’ve already witnessed I’m a strong swimmer. When I was young I used to swim against a boy who later went on to win a bronze medal at the Olympic Games. I regularly beat him in competitions so take from that what you will.” Bull put down the makeshift water bailer and said,

“Are you sure you didn’t kick me?”

“Look, you’ve been oversleeping. It’s not good for you. I read somewhere it causes headaches.”

“You woke me from my dream to tell me you can swim. Good for you. Can I go back to sleep?”

“What were you expecting? Breakfast in bed?”

“Breakfast would be good actually. It might settle my stomach. What have you got?”

“Apart from soft prunes and bannock cake? Not much.” Andrew rummaged around in the suitcase. He found the bag of prunes and threw one at Bull who caught it in his mouth. With the blade of his multi-tool he cut a slice of bannock cake and handed it to Bull. He said,

“Look, do you want to hear my story or not?” Through a mouth full of cake Bull said,

“If there’s a choice, I’ll plump for not.”

“Well you’re going to hear it anyway. As I said my uncle was unconscious and drowning in the sea and it was up to me to save him. Graham was in an awful panic. He was unable to control the yacht. We capsized and we were all in the drink.” Bull interjected.

“Is there a point to this story? I’m a busy man and time is getting on. I’ve got a list of interesting things to do today.” Bull sighed and looked upward seeking divine intervention. Andrew said,

“I’m sure you have but not before you have heard my story. It was touch and go for quite a while out there. I was always conscious of the depth of the water and the ocean currents, but more so, the almost irrational fear, due to the blood dripping from my Uncle’s head wound, we might attract sharks.” Bull’s eyebrows rose in expectation when Andrew mentioned sharks. Andrew sensed he was beginning to get his attention. He continued,

“It took forever but we all made it to shore. I dragged my uncle over the hot sand, cut a swathe through the vegetation and bandaged him using the bottom half of my t-shirt. I started a fire using a magnesium fire steel. I always carry it with me, and my multi-tool. You never know when they might be needed. The fire would act as a rescue beacon, just in case someone saw the smoke and also as a way of purifying water, if we were there for the long haul. Luckily my uncle regained consciousness but I needed to set off and get help. He wanted to go himself but was in no fit condition, so I insisted it was better for him to stay and look after Graham. It seemed like the best plan of action.” Andrew paused again. He wanted to give Bull enough time to build a clear picture in his mind, and for himself to reflect on the magnitude of his heroism.

“So there was no shark attack?” said Bull disappointedly.

“No, that was our only piece of good fortune but I think Graham was stung by a jellyfish.”

“A box jellyfish? Did he die?” asked Bull, now sitting back with his arms folded behind his head and waiting to be entertained. A voice sounded from the other side of the raft.

“Stop, stop this ma…it’s too late…” Bull edged towards Malcolm. He cupped his face in one hand and with the other he slapped his cheek gently. There was no further response. He said,

“Was I hearing things or did he just come out of a coma to tell you to stop talking. Are you sure you don’t know him? It sounds like he’s heard this story before.”

“This is a new low for you isn’t it? Reduced to mocking a sick possibly dying man.” replied Andrew with a sneer on his lips, “But if you must know he’s been making strange noises for some time now. You’re just usually asleep when he starts up.” Bull sniffed the air and said,

“The putrid smell inside this raft can’t be helping him.” Andrew opened the aperture and let some fresh air in. Bull said,

“Are you sure he’s unconscious, I mean people in comas don’t usually talk do they.”

“I didn’t hear him talk. All I heard was some incoherent mumblings.”

“I think he was dreaming about his mother.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“He said, stop this ma.”

“He’s a bit old to be having dreams about his mother,”

“I have dreams about my mother all the time.”

“I think psychologists have a term for your condition.”

“I don’t have an Oedipus complex, if that’s what you’re implying. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question. Do people in comas talk? I thought you were the man with all the answers?”

“I’ve only got basic medical training, but there’s a thing called the Glasgow Coma Scale and once we had a gillie on the estate who fell down a river bank and suffered a head injury…”

“One story at a time Sherlock,” interrupted Bull. Andrew waited patiently, his expression pensive and his hands clasped and resting on his legs. He continued his story.

“Anyway, after much persuasion, he agreed to let me go in his place...”

“Who did?” interrupted Bull, “the wounded gillie or your Uncle?”

“My Uncle,” replied Andrew through gritted teeth.

“So your uncle was the gillie?”

“No, my uncle wasn’t a gillie, but that was another story I only mentioned to explain the concept of coma. You didn’t let me finish.” To Andrew’s surprise Bull laughed. Andrew continued,

“So I set off with some meagre rations. A bottle of drinking water and a Tunnock’s tea cake. I had just turned eighteen but I was as fit as I am now, although much slighter of frame back then. My Grandfather used to say I had the physique of a traveller’s dog: all ribs and cock.”

Bull’s eyes opened wide. He said,

“I don’t know how to react to your last statement.” Andrew went on. He said,

“My journey took me through bushes, thickets and all sorts of hazardous vegetation. At one point I thought I was never going to make it.” Bull heard a hint of emotion in Andrew’s crackling voice. He sat upright waiting for the flood gates to open. Andrew was inspired by Bull’s display of eagerness and proceeded to add a bit more sensation to his voice.

“Well, I decided I needed to be strong. To try to be brave. After my uncle’s accident, everyone was relying on me. Even at a tender young age, I was already showing leadership qualities well beyond my years. It was a matter of practicalities you see.”

“So what happened next?” asked Bull eager for him to continue the story.

“I came across some locals but they appeared to be hostile. I had heard stories about this part of the world. One of them even threw a projectile at me! I feared for my safety, so I decided to run and stay well clear of them. I wasn’t going to get any help there. I was pretty much left on my own, without a map or even a compass. The terrain was disorientating and the suppressive heat and humidity were combining to sap my energy levels. Nevertheless, I persevered and eventually reached civilisation where finally I managed to get help. Suffering from heat exhaustion and dehydration, I stumbled upon a phone box and one hour later, I returned with an ambulance, the Essex police and the Royal Coast Guard.” Bull’s face dropped as if consumed by gravity.

“What do you mean a phone box,” he sighed, “The police and the Coast Guard? Were they in the jungle looking for you?” Andrew said,

“I never said I was in the jungle. It was a hot summer’s day and we capsized off Canvey Island. It was the hottest day on record at the time. It was one hundred and three degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity was unbelievable. The incident made the Canvey Island Echo …” Bull held up his hand and said,

“It was hardly an ordeal. More of an accident involving you going for help. What about all your tales of the hostile locals?”

“Have you ever been to Canvey Island? It’s not the type of place strangers ask directions, especially if all you are wearing is a belly top, because you’ve used half of your t-shirt for bandages, thigh length khaki shorts, knee length socks and a pair of blue deck plimsolls.”

“Yes, I do know Canvey Island. It’s not even an island, sorry, wasn’t even an island. It was a peninsula before the Change, before the floods, so once again Sherlock, what exactly is the point to your story?”

“The point of the story being, I’ve had previous knowledge of such circumstances. So you shouldn’t worry. Even at a young age I showed good initiative during a time of emergency. I have experience in survival situations. I was an officer in the Territorial Army. I was Captain…” Bull raised his finger and stretching over, pressed it against Andrew’s lips. He said,

“I’m going back to sleep.” Andrew sat crestfallen and staring at his boots, the silence only broken by the sound of the grab ropes tapping against the inflated pontoons. Later he positioned himself by the aperture and watched for signs of land or a passing ship.