Surrounded by Sharks by Michael Northrop

forward underneath it.
    The thing floated in the water in front of him. It was still bobbing lazily from the impact. Davey just stared at it. It’s not that he didn’t know what it was. He knew exactly. It was a water cooler bottle. Replacing the empty ones in his parents’ home office with full ones was one of his standard chores. Brando still wasn’t quite big enough — or careful enough — to do it without spilling half a gallon on the floor.
    But he didn’t expect to head-butt one in the Gulf of freaking Mexico. It took him a few moments to figure out what it was doing there. Then he realized that it was trash, washed out to sea just like he had been. It was partly submerged and tilted on its side, maybe a third full of water. It rose up and over each little swell that washed past them. It was the same cheap kind of bottle that his parents had downgraded to recently. It was made of thin, transparent, blue-gray plastic instead of the thicker, bluer, more opaque plastic of the name-brand bottles.
    Davey looked at its humpbacked profile, its neck pointing up just enough to keeps its open mouth above water. Yep , he thought. That’s the shape I thought was an island . He felt like he’d just failed a test. He wasn’t getting closer to an island. He was getting closer to a water cooler bottle. He was treading water again, his legs rubbery and spent. He made his right hand into a fist. Then he reached out and smashed down on the top of the bottle. Stupid bottle!
    The force of the blow pushed the mouth of the bottle underwater. Ocean water poured in. The neck tipped back up a moment later, and the bottle found its balance. It continued bobbing along on the water.
    Davey did the same, but with more effort and a worse attitude. As his surprise faded, he made the obvious connection. He coughed up a single sharp laugh at himself for thinking a disposable plastic jug was an island. He was happy all of a sudden, almost overjoyed. This thing floated!
    He leaned forward, kicked his legs, and grabbed the bottle. He hugged it with both arms. Love would not have been too strong a word. Now, the big test: He stopped kicking his legs. He began to sink, taking the bottle with him. He angled the opening of the bottle up into the air. They kept sinking. He held his breath as his mouth neared the water. The bottle stabilized. Most of it was underwater, but the neck stuck up alongside Davey’s head. He glanced over. It looked like the periscope of a little plastic submarine. More important, it was keeping them both afloat.
    He let go with one arm and smashed the water three times. The first two were just sheer happiness and relief. The third was more like, In your face, ocean!
    And now that he was thinking a little more clearly, he realized that he could make this even better. He gathered the little strength he had left. As tired as he was, it felt great. Because he knew he’d be able to rest after this, at least for a little while.
    He waited for a little swell to pass. The bottle carried him up and over. Then he reached down and grabbed the bottom of the bottle. His mouth and nose dipped under the surface, so he moved fast. He lifted the bottle up and out of the water, kicking fiercely. His whole head was underwater now. Everything was under the water except his arms and the bottle. Above the little waves, he tipped the bottle down.
    He tipped it down the same way he did when he replaced one in the office: just enough. It began to empty but stayed above the surface. He heard the splash of water on water. He wished that it really was full of bottled water, instead of salty brine. He would’ve drunk it all. As the bottle emptied, it became lighter. Even as his kicks grew weaker, they lifted him farther out of the water. Soon, his head was above the surface again. Then his shoulders were. Then he was holding a big empty bottle, way up in the air. The sun was shining through it, making crazy patterns.
    He flipped it back around, top up,