The New Madrid Run by Michael Reisig Page B

washed over the side by the rough seas in the night. He hated himself for the relief he felt, knowing that the terrible decision had been taken away by the sea. He tried to fight it—the panic and nausea, but as the sun rose over a gray sea, it all cascaded down on him again. He slid down onto the floor of the raft, pulled himself into a fetal position, and closed his eyes. The young man stayed that way all day and into the night. He didn’t really sleep. His mind, in mechanized defense, simply short-circuited and turned off.
    In the early hours of the next morning, the needs of the boy’s body brought him back to life. He awoke with a parched mouth that gave thirst a new dimension. His face and arms were badly sunburned. His skin was hot, but he found himself shivering. His mind was so numbed that he felt like a stranger in his own body. The child steeled himself to concentrate only on the present— remembrance was not allowed.
    At first, even he was unaware of the deep wounds to his psyche the trauma of the past few days had caused. It was when he saw one of his mother’s sandals in the raft and attempted to cry out, that he realized he couldn’t speak. Although his mouth moved, no words came forth. Startled, he tried to speak again and still there was no sound from his throat, no words from his lips. It wasn’t at all like the time when he had laryngitis and could just barely whisper. It was more as if the part of him that gave voice was gone—just gone, lost to the sound of the waves slapping against the raft and the cries of the gulls above. The boy collapsed back against the side of the hard rubber and cried, tears of pain and frustration rolling down his cheeks.
    It was thirst that brought the young castaway around once more. He lay there, dry mouth cradling his swollen tongue, when a thought burst into his consciousness—there was water in the raft!
    His father always kept a half-gallon of drinking water in a pouch in the back of the raft near the transom! In the kaleidoscopic events of the last twenty-four hours, he had forgotten all about it. The youth crawled over to the pouch and clawed at the zipper. There was not only water, but, sealed in a plastic bag were a dozen granola bars.
    His hands shaking, he tore the cap off the water bottle and drank greedily. He paused for a moment, savoring the wondrous feeling of moisture, then took another long swallow. Without missing a beat, he snapped the lid on the water and attacked the granola bars. He devoured one without even tasting it, then he slowed down and ate another, but resisted the temptation for a third. After the second granola bar, the boy had another slug of water, then reluctantly put away his meager supplies.
    As the dawn gave life to sullen, cloud-filled skies, the young man tried to sleep—to escape. But when he closed his eyes, he was assailed by nightmares recounting the death of his mother and father. He sobbed in silence, his voice trapped like an insect in a mason jar, and he lay awake sweating and shaking. The sun rose and tortured him, and when it finally set, the velvet coolness of night seduced him into sleep and the nightmares came again. He awoke drenched in sweat, drank a little water, and mechanically ate part of a granola bar, but he could feel the life force ebbing from him—the desire to exist, to survive, was fading. Night bled into morning again. He had long since lost track of time, and everything around him had become surreal. When he heard the voice calling, the boy thought it was his father’s. There was a part of him that knew it couldn’t be, yet the voice persisted.
    Once again it was the sensei, riding on the bow, who spotted the raft. He pointed to starboard as Travis changed course slightly and brought the boat abeam. There in the raft lay a boy, blond hair plastered to his head from salt spray, soft blue eyes staring up, vacant and uncomprehending, arms and face burned reddish brown. The sensei, holding a line,