Shipwrecked. Can you imagine it? The desolate ship, lying destroyed, half submerged. The scullery rats who so graciously kept me company have succumbed to their frantic attempts of escape and lie exhausted, drowning in the swirling mass of everything around them. The grains of rice from the open bins, circling in the current, like flower petals on a pretty fountain; only, the stark reality of the situation forbids me from appreciating the artistic designs they form in the lead-grey slopping water. But it's not the floating articles of clothing that gets me down, nor the bottles of water, so carefully conserved to last the whole trip. Not even, surprisingly, the great volumes of literature, which were once wrapped so carefully in plastic, but as I glance over at the favorites, the ones that lay open on the desk, I see nothing more than a soggy lump of pages, the ink all run together; submerged by the torturous water. No, none of this shakes me, none so much as the noise. It is soul-rattling, the level of silence that this unsolved crime scene can produce: like heat from a boiling pot of water: the silence rises and flows through my body, infiltrating every place inside of me. How can I mistake it? I am alone.
The final straw of my rational being leads me wading across the quickly disappearing deck, towards the splintering wooden cabinet which holds the life raft. If only I had known, as I went on those final rounds before I set sail; that this dusty lump of plastic that I didn't even bother to check on could be my final hope, would I have at least open the cupboard and inflated it, in case of a hole? I reach the door, and tug on the rusty brass handle. A strange cracking sound is emitted, but it holds tight, like I am an impatient doctor, trying to pry a newborn out of the hands of its relived and adoring mother. With the water crashing onto the deck, swirling around my waist by now, I dig my fingernails into the cracks and try to pry open the wooden monstrosity which keeps me from my precious prize. My fingernail snaps, and blood flows gently from the tip of my calloused fingers, but I am in no mood to pay attention to pain. A final tug releases no results, and I smash my fists against the boards, venting my desperation and frustration. One of the boards gives a little, so I immediately start pounding on the rotting wood, trying to keep my head about me. Finally, I break through, and am able to use this opening to grab into, and force the opening of the door. To my relief, there, tangled around an ancient broom handle, lies the raft. I yank it out, and as I blow, now in desperation into the holes, I begin to panic.
The raft is fully inflated by the time the water is up to my chest, and I hurriedly, yet loosely secure it to the mast, as I half swim, half tiptoe across the deck again. Knowing that the cabin will be filled with water by now, I instead target the high ledge where the remains of a little experiment I had been trying out just a few days ago lay. I raise the body length mirror horizontally off the submerged table, and stand it on its frame, about 25cm sticking out of the water. Next, I fumble open the tank of the small kerosene lamp, shivering with the cold from the water, and soak a length of string in the oil. I tie this securely around the mirror, halfway in between the rapidly rising water level and the top. With bated breath, I slide open the box of matches sitting on the shelf. Breathing a sigh of relief at them still being dry, I strike one against the box. As it ignites, I hold it to the string. Once the string has burned out, I quickly splash the cold water on both sides of the mirror, and press down on the top, snapping it cleanly in two, just as planned. I allow myself a small, yet triumphant smile and toss the slice of mirror, which is small enough to carry now, gently into the lifeboat. After chancing another nostalgic glance around the deck, I suck in, and duck under the water to grab the heavy, soaking wet blanket from off the deck chair and heave it into the boat, to keep the sun off in the days I am anticipating ahead. I know that without it, the sun would burn me to a crisp, quite literally, within a few hours of tomorrow’s morning. Finally, I untie the raft, step onto the back of the deck chair and collapse inside.
Gently, yet unsure, I maneuver the raft across the deck, (which no longer seems like a deck, more like a cluttered swimming pool), over the sinking ridge and onto the open sea. The silence of my movements match the silence of the world around me, like a secret convoy snaking down a bush trail in the middle of the night. I reach of the side of the raft to fish out the last two bobbing bottles of water that I can see, and place them at the bottom of the boat, near the blanket. Then I sit tight, my knuckles white as I grip the mirror, waiting for the sun to finally set, and the moon to rise; to reflect its’ out shadowed, yet saving glow onto the face of my mirror. Just waiting.
