Rebel(56)

I pray I’ll be able to get her back on her feet.

It’s only when I’m almost there that I realize what an idiot I am. Collapsed on the deck is a serving cart with a ripped parasol, knocked over by the wind, its wheels still spinning. I grab the slippery railing, half laughing, half sobbing. I just put my life in danger for a rogue piece of deck equipment. My only consolation is that nobody saw me, because now that I’m closer, it doesn’t look anything like a person.

The ship crests a wave and crashes down towards the next one, and only my death grip on the railing keeps me from going on my face. Shit, I might be in trouble. Now I’m the crazy person out in the storm, and the door isn’t even visible from this far forwards. I need to get inside before I’m launched overboard.

I give the cart a frustrated glare before I start the long journey back. God, I feel stupid. I think the storm agrees with me. With the wind in my face, it seems even angrier than it was on the way out, and my knuckles whiten on the rail while I try to keep my footing.

Hand over hand, I pull myself along, keeping my eyes firmly on the shadowy outline of the center of the ship. I got out here. I can get back. Doing my best to convince myself while the wind and rain tear at my face and the crashing of the sea roars in my ears, I drag myself closer, step by step.

Either the storm is getting worse, or my arms are getting tired. Every wave that spills over the railings puts me that much closer to losing my footing and going down. I’m so wet and cold that it hurts, and my grip is getting weaker. I grit my teeth in determination, but part of me just wants to sit down and give up.

I can do this.

Someone once told me that every seventh wave is bigger when it washes up on shore. As a kid, I used to count them on the beach, running up the sand every time I got to seven, expecting it to come rushing further than the ones before. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn’t, but maybe I was counting them wrong. It must be a seventh wave that suddenly washes over the ship, tearing my feet out from under me and ripping my grip loose from the railing.

I scream and my mouth fills with water. Scrambling for anything to hold on to, I get my fingers around the legs of one of the deck-mounted tables, but not without banging my forearm against one of the others. That’s going to bruise in the morning, but bruises heal. Getting washed off the side of the ship? Much worse. Crawling under the table, I wrap both of my arms around the leg and cling to it for dear life. I’d hoped I’d get a little cover, but the rain’s going straight sideways. Doesn’t matter. There’s no part of me left that isn’t completely drenched.

Now what? I’m close enough that I can almost see the door, but new waves rush by, and I don’t think I can manage to actually walk the rest of the way. So near, and yet too far. I don’t know what to do, so I cry for help. No one’s going to hear me, but I have to try.

“Help!” The first time, all I get is a mouthful of brine that cuts the sound right off. Sputtering and coughing, I spit, trying to get the raw taste of it out of my mouth. I try again, this time waiting for a wave to pass by before I yell. “Help!”

I don’t know who I expect to answer. A guardian angel? A crew member taking a walk in the stormy weather? Captain Chuck? I guess I expect nothing, which is exactly what I get. My voice is lost in the rumble of the storm, carried away by the wind. If someone was standing right in front of me, I’m not sure they’d hear me. It’s only the refusal to give up that millions of years of evolution have instilled in me that keeps me yelling until my throat hurts.

No one is coming. I need to save my strength and try it on my own, before I give up and let go. I’m soaked clean through and my teeth are chattering. My eyes sting, and I can’t tell if it’s the rain or my frustrated tears. The door seems impossibly far away, but I need to make it.

It’s now or nothing. Drawing a deep breath, I let go of the table and shimmy out into the open. Getting to my feet, I cling to the wall next to me, trying to keep my legs from giving out.

I’m never going to make it. Yes, you will. I refuse to end up a tragic footnote in the next issue of ‘Cruising Life’.

Right. I swallow the huge lump in my throat and square my shoulders. Just one last burst of energy, then I’ll be safe. All I need to do is get inside, then I can go back upstairs, take a nice warm shower and pretend this whole thing never happened. Everything’s going to be perfect, or at least no more messed up than it was.

You can do this, Angie.

I go. Running into the wind, it feels like Poseidon’s cold, wet hands are trying to pull me back. I get at least two, maybe three steps, before a wall of water crashes over me and knocks me off my feet. I should’ve counted to seven.