at least forty degrees, but the wind is fast here where the ocean temperature meets the cold air rushing down from Greenland’s frozen core.
“We’re not going to make it!” Peach shouts.
She’s sensed the same thing I have—the waves, or maybe the tide, is fighting us. “We’re going to die if we don’t make it,” I yell back. “Now keep padding!”
I redouble my efforts and the burn is hard to ignore now, but I didn’t fight this hard and this long to sit back and let us drift back out to sea. Peach doesn’t quite see it the same way.
She stops paddling. “I can’t!” She’s got tears in her eyes. I’m bigger and stronger than her. Her arms are probably worse off than mine.
Before I can threaten to shoot her if she doesn’t start paddling again, she’s lifted up and pulled back inside. Jenny says, “Sit on her.”
I feel Peach’s weight on my ass, pinning me down. A moment later, Jenny lies down by my side and sets her paddle to the water. “I could have the biceps of Hulk Hogan and still not be able to pull my weight out of here.”
There she goes with another wrestling comment. As we dig up and over a wave, I say, “I could go for a couple of twenty-four inch pythons right about now.”
She smiles at my quotation of how the Hulkster used to describe the girth of his biceps. “You’re a wrestling fan?”
“Nah,” I say. “Child of the 80’s. Hogan was everywhere. You?”
“Child of Alabama,” she says. “I grew up on wrestling, gravy and butter. Can’t you tell?”
I’m about to laugh when the wave crests and pitches us forward. The feeling of forward momentum is grand, but the salt water rammed up my nostrils is not. I cough and blow water from my nose as my sinuses burn. Jenny got a face-full too and our conversation ends. We grit our teeth, and tag team this son-of-a-bitch ocean like The Hart Foundation, everyone’s favorite pink tights-wearing wrestling tag team.
Ten agonizing minutes later and we’re just twenty feet from a beach of smooth worn stones. But suddenly, we’re not getting anywhere.
“What happened?” I shout.
“Listen,” Peach says from inside the raft.
A wave picks us up and pushes us a few feet closer to shore. When we drop down, there is a sudden tug like we’re caught on something, and a dull scraping sound.
“It’s the ballast bags,” Peach said. “They’re dragging on the bottom.”
“How big are they?” Jenny asks.
“They hang down two, maybe three feet,” she replies.
“So we’re only in three feet of water?” Jenny doesn’t wait for a reply. She sits back in the raft, removes her boots, socks and two pairs of pants. Before I can tell her she’s nuts, she steps out of the raft and into the knee-deep frigid water. She lets out a shriek, but takes hold of two plastic handles, leans back and drags the raft toward the shore. Five feet from the stone and pebble beach, she stops. The water is only inches deep here and our waterproof boots can handle it. Peach and I jump out and help the half-naked Jenny pull the raft all the way out of the water and over the beach.
As the ballasts lose their water, the raft becomes far lighter and we make good time dragging the raft past the water line and up onto a flat stone in the shadow of a fifteen foot, gray cliff.
We dive back inside. Jenny is shivering. I dry her legs with my cloak and help her back into her dry clothes. Taking them off was smart. She’d have a hard time getting warm if she had to wait for her pants to dry. Peach rubs Jenny’s still shaking legs. Jenny lies back and grunts. “This thing was a lot more comfortable out on the water.”
I crouch next to them and say, “I’m going to take a look around.”
Neither of them looks happy about this.
“We should stay together,” Peach says.
“I’m not going far,” I say. “I just want to make sure there isn’t a hotel around the corner or a ship just off shore.”
This seems to make sense to them and they both
“We’re not going to make it!” Peach shouts.
She’s sensed the same thing I have—the waves, or maybe the tide, is fighting us. “We’re going to die if we don’t make it,” I yell back. “Now keep padding!”
I redouble my efforts and the burn is hard to ignore now, but I didn’t fight this hard and this long to sit back and let us drift back out to sea. Peach doesn’t quite see it the same way.
She stops paddling. “I can’t!” She’s got tears in her eyes. I’m bigger and stronger than her. Her arms are probably worse off than mine.
Before I can threaten to shoot her if she doesn’t start paddling again, she’s lifted up and pulled back inside. Jenny says, “Sit on her.”
I feel Peach’s weight on my ass, pinning me down. A moment later, Jenny lies down by my side and sets her paddle to the water. “I could have the biceps of Hulk Hogan and still not be able to pull my weight out of here.”
There she goes with another wrestling comment. As we dig up and over a wave, I say, “I could go for a couple of twenty-four inch pythons right about now.”
She smiles at my quotation of how the Hulkster used to describe the girth of his biceps. “You’re a wrestling fan?”
“Nah,” I say. “Child of the 80’s. Hogan was everywhere. You?”
“Child of Alabama,” she says. “I grew up on wrestling, gravy and butter. Can’t you tell?”
I’m about to laugh when the wave crests and pitches us forward. The feeling of forward momentum is grand, but the salt water rammed up my nostrils is not. I cough and blow water from my nose as my sinuses burn. Jenny got a face-full too and our conversation ends. We grit our teeth, and tag team this son-of-a-bitch ocean like The Hart Foundation, everyone’s favorite pink tights-wearing wrestling tag team.
Ten agonizing minutes later and we’re just twenty feet from a beach of smooth worn stones. But suddenly, we’re not getting anywhere.
“What happened?” I shout.
“Listen,” Peach says from inside the raft.
A wave picks us up and pushes us a few feet closer to shore. When we drop down, there is a sudden tug like we’re caught on something, and a dull scraping sound.
“It’s the ballast bags,” Peach said. “They’re dragging on the bottom.”
“How big are they?” Jenny asks.
“They hang down two, maybe three feet,” she replies.
“So we’re only in three feet of water?” Jenny doesn’t wait for a reply. She sits back in the raft, removes her boots, socks and two pairs of pants. Before I can tell her she’s nuts, she steps out of the raft and into the knee-deep frigid water. She lets out a shriek, but takes hold of two plastic handles, leans back and drags the raft toward the shore. Five feet from the stone and pebble beach, she stops. The water is only inches deep here and our waterproof boots can handle it. Peach and I jump out and help the half-naked Jenny pull the raft all the way out of the water and over the beach.
As the ballasts lose their water, the raft becomes far lighter and we make good time dragging the raft past the water line and up onto a flat stone in the shadow of a fifteen foot, gray cliff.
We dive back inside. Jenny is shivering. I dry her legs with my cloak and help her back into her dry clothes. Taking them off was smart. She’d have a hard time getting warm if she had to wait for her pants to dry. Peach rubs Jenny’s still shaking legs. Jenny lies back and grunts. “This thing was a lot more comfortable out on the water.”
I crouch next to them and say, “I’m going to take a look around.”
Neither of them looks happy about this.
“We should stay together,” Peach says.
“I’m not going far,” I say. “I just want to make sure there isn’t a hotel around the corner or a ship just off shore.”
This seems to make sense to them and they both
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