Galloway was right.
Some things, you should never have to do.
No one had the energy to arrange S.O.S out of logs and fuselage; we subconsciously agreed the fire would be our signal.
And as much as we wanted to rest...we couldn’t.
If we didn’t forage, we didn’t eat. And I was more able than Galloway was today. Tomorrow, I might have to lean on him. I didn’t mind sharing duties. If only he could understand that.
Pippa and Conner came with me when I announced a scavenging trip. Together, we found twice as many clams as the day before. Galloway’s messenger bag groaned beneath the salty weight.
I was careful not to lead them too close to the other side of the island, and once we’d collected all we could carry, we returned to the beach and gathered more firewood and fresh coconuts.
Once our chores were complete, we rested around the fire, and ate a simple fare washed down with evergreen water.
We said goodnight to yet another day in deserted paradise.
.............................
DAY EIGHT
The sun seemed intent on chargrilling us from the moment it crested on the horizon to long after it fell into the sea. The children were lethargic and suffered borderline heatstroke.
We spent most of the day bobbing in the tide, trying to stay cool.
If anyone noticed us, swimming in a mismatch of t-shirts and slovenly clothing, they would’ve laughed at our ingenious ways of staying free from sunburn.
Galloway wore the baseball cap while Pippa and Conner found their own straw sailor hats from the clothing Amelia had packed for them. I wrapped my gold negligee over my head and drenched it with seawater, ensuring as much as possible shielded my face. It’d taken a lot of convincing, but Galloway insisted I wear the only pair of sunglasses as I didn’t have a hat.
At least, spending all day in the water meant I was able to sand-scrub our clothes and do my best to get them clean.
Dinner consisted of clams and coconuts washed down with restricted allotments of water.
At the end of the day, I slipped into my dug-out bed, toasty warm by the crackling fire. Drowsy, I stared at the clear horizon and begged for rain. I prayed to every god to grant us a reprieve from the dry spell. Our limited water collection from the trees kept us alive, but we desperately needed more.
Every night, the urge to be greedy and keep all three bottles for myself turned me into a horrible person. I craved the luxury of a fresh-water bath. Of washing away the salt and sand from my skin. I dreamed of gallons of crisp water raining from above; I fantasised of ice cubes and air-conditioning.
I imagined we were rescued and this was all over.
But that was all they were: dreams, fantasies, imagination.
We went through the motions.
We ate but slowly lost weight.
We drank but slowly died from dehydration.
And we interacted less and less, growing quieter as the hours plodded on.
We’d survived longer than originally thought.
But we hadn’t been rescued.
Not one engine on the horizon. Not one flare of hope.
Our limited supplies of toothbrushes and meagre possessions gave us a little wealth but in the scheme of things...we were destitute.
We’d explored and trekked and plotted and planned.
But we were alone.
And our temporary measures at clinging to life weren’t working.
.............................
DAY TWELVE
My taste buds craved anything else but clams.
It’d been twelve days; I needed variety. Nutrients. Vitamins from a range of food not just one salty morsel.
We’d tried to snare the occasional lizard that ventured too close. We swatted at mosquitoes that turned us into a meal. We eyed seagulls flying high. And we resorted to hunting tropical bugs and pan-frying them on rocks. The crunchy critters tasted disgusting, but at least it offered a small amount of energy.
Our qualms over what society deemed acceptable quickly shredded the longer the days stretched. My stomach constantly ached along with a dehydrated throb behind my eyes.
The hottest part of the day was reserved for rest, but the remaining hours were dedicated to remaining alive for one more day.
One more morning.
One more night.
One more chance of being found.
Yesterday, Conner had earned a lashing from my tongue. He’d taken it upon himself to swim offshore, far, far, farther than his young body should. I hadn’t noticed until it was too late, his head bobbing in the turquoise drink.
Galloway cursed like a pirate when the dripping, broken-wristed boy finally waded back to shore. But Conner merely straightened his back and said someone had to try. Someone had to swim out to the reef-break and see if there was another island close by, a ship hidden behind an inlet, some sort of hope that we couldn’t imagine.
But just like our island...there was nothing.
We were in a snow globe. The centre figurine surrounded by invisible walls.
We faded into despair after that.
Conner didn’t mention rescue again. And Galloway erected impenetrable partitions around his soul. Pippa was the only one who spoke, but the childish belief that things would work out faded quickly as repetitive sunrise and sunsets stole us into an unsurvivable future.
I sang snippets of my songs-in-progress to lull her to sleep. I stole precious moments to scribble in my crinkled notepad, outlining sonnets that would never be heard.
With nothing else to do, the children kept themselves occupied—building an occasional sandcastle, swimming where I could keep an eye on them, and napping in the shade.
We’d all lost weight.