I didn’t know where my scout leader had gone. I couldn’t spot Tony, or Jeremiah, or even the best swimmer in our troop, Peter. Waist deep in the ocean I turned to face the shore before me. No one was waiting for me, no rescue team, not even an animal. Sprawled out before me, I was staring into a scene from a movie.

            An island. Big enough that it would not be swept up by a storm in one night, but small enough that if I stood in the water as I was, I could see the curve of the island. Beyond the curve, ocean. As I walked slowly to the shore, I took in the landscape.

            The foreground consisted of sand and driftwood. The shells were scarce and the waves never seemed to come. Beyond the sand a line of trees. The trees seemed to dictate a clear distinction on the island. The curtain of trees behind the sand blocked the sun. The bushes and trees that swallowed up the land in the forest were so tightly packed I wasn’t sure if I would be able to pass that first line of trees.

            I turned back toward the ocean and sat, defeated. How did this happen? We knew what we were doing, we had studied for years and trained for months.

                                                                        ***

            Turning sixteen was a big deal for the Boy Scouts that resided in South Florida. For my troop, it meant finally going sailing, starting at the keys and working our way back up through the Gulf of Mexico, until finally docking back in Destin, Florida. I had joined the Scouts just for this reason. Before my dad had died he had been a sailor in the Coast Guard. This would be our chance to reconnect. My dad, me, and the love of the water. But since my dad’s death, my mom’s disdain for the Scouts had turned into disgust. She prayed, begged, and nagged for years to not let me ship off.

            “Tom, you do know you’ll be gone for months. That means no video games, no cell phone reception, no hugs from your mom,” my mom’s pale hands turned even more white as her knuckles gripped the steering wheel.

            I sighed before responding, “I know that, Mom. I have known that since the day I signed up to be a Cub Scout. If I didn’t want to sincerely go on this trip, I would’ve quit when I was 8.” As we drove to the dock where we would sail off from, I took in the landscape of my hometown. The rushing strip malls and tourist stores, the acres of suburbs all with perfectly manicured lawns, the bridge that took us to the harbor that squeaked as you drove over it. The sprawling green blue water sparkled in the sunlight. The water’s rhythm brought me a sense of peace before embarking on what would surely be the adventure of my life. Whoosh, whoosh, back and forth, back and forth.

                                                                        ***

            My shoes and socks were so soaked my toes had turned to raisins. I had begun to wring out my clothing. I was wearing my stupid scout button down that was covered in badges and pins. It was impossible to dry without pricking my fingers or getting a good angle to really force the water out. Sitting in the sand, feeling swallowed by the particles of salty air, I scanned the shoreline like I had a hundred times already. I could see no part of our boat, no splashing in the water, no signs of life. I got up and started towards the water, hoping that if I got closer maybe I would see someone. Anyone. Anything.

            I could see where we had crashed, where the swell had taken us. There was no evidence of the wreck. But I knew it had happened. It was engraved in my memory.

            We left the Keys about a month ago. There was two months left on our trip. Until the wreck, all was well. We fished, ate, drank, played cards, and manned the ship. It was exactly as I imagined. It was a real adventure with the boys I had grown up with and a Scout Leader who was like a father to us.

            As we sailed through the night, we knew we had entered the Gulf. The water was a different color than the Keys. It was more…intimidating. The salt water smell forced its way into your nostrils and stamped your pores. I was sitting on the bow, taking in the scent, letting the spray hit my hands as I reached them out over the side of the boat, when Mr. J., the Scout Leader announced, “Do you boys smell that? Look up.” Storm clouds filled the sky. “Shit, the radio said no rain tonight. We would’ve stayed in the Keys if I knew we’d hit rough waters.”

            The other boys and I exchanged glances. We knew how to dock in an emergency, but that was in safe waters, and safe towns. We were in the middle of nowhere. “Tom, Peter, start helping me put the sail back up, we’re going to have to swing east and find somewhere to stay the night.” Peter and I did as we were told. We didn’t talk while putting the sail up, only sharing many of the same glances which said: we are fucked.

            We had just started turning eastward as the waves picked up. It was miraculous. One moment we were wading in the calm waters, the next we were being tossed like victims of Poseidon. There was no gentle sea spray to comfort my hands, if the water came near the tip of the boat, it was coming by the gallons.

            The lightning seemed to be striking in every direction. I shut my eyes to count the seconds between the strikes, just like I learned to do as a little boy. CRACK! One Missi- CRACK! “Oh shit!” On the second crack, before I could even make it to the second Mississippi, the strike forced its way past my tightly scrunched eyes. We were quite literally in the eye of the storm.

            From there my memory becomes more of a blur. I remember hearing screams. I remember the constant strikes of lightning and thunder that seemed to assault us relentlessly. The last visual memory I have is the lightning splitting the boat in two, the mast of the sail coming directly for my head, and the faint noise of Peter yelling at me to jump.

            I came to on a spare piece of plywood. Its yellow color indicated that it was the side of the boat. I sat up on the plank, careful not to lose my balance, and surveyed the scene. No other boat pieces, no other humans, but I saw an island so small it would have never made it on a map. I could barely see it in the distance now, but it broke my heart to think we were so close to shore. I started to use every inch of my strength to make it to shore.

                                                                        ***

            The day turned to night before I could blink. I had failed to set up camp, find food or a water source. This is not what you’d expect from someone who spent many hours researching the wild, but the Scouts never prepared me for being stranded alone. For all I knew, my friends were dead. Mr. J. was probably dead too. Or they could’ve been rescued and I was the one that didn’t make it.

            I started pacing back and forth on the beach, trying to formulate some type of plan. I refused to enter the forest, especially at night. During the day it was dark, but during the night it seemed to have a haunting aura to it that I did not want to disturb. I knew I needed to find water and food.

            But instead, I dropped to my knees and let out a bellowing scream, “HELP ME!” It seemed stupid, but what was I going to do? I had nothing. Not even a knife. At the sound of my voice, a fleet of birds flew from the trees and out over the ocean. I relished their freedom. Who knows how long I would be here.

            I eventually got to work. I piled together all the drift wood in the pile and started using a stick and a rock to start a flame. There was a spark, but no fire produced itself and the night was becoming cold. I found some berries near the tree line. There were only four and their color resembled a tomato. My stomach growled in desperation. So I put two of the berries in my shirt pocket for the morning and whispered, “Bottom’s up,” as I ate the other two. My stomach protested and wanted me to bring the berries back up but I refused. I needed the nutrition, what little there may be.

            I returned to the driftwood to continue trying to make a fire. After five minutes the rock and stick wouldn’t produce a spark. Sweating, I started moving the pieces faster and harder, doing everything to try and create a flame. Finally, a puff of smoke, a hiss of flame, and the driftwood caught on fire. “HA! WOOHOO!” I screamed for all the animals in the forest to hear me. I galloped around the fire, exuding joy grateful that I was not entirely useless. With my berries in my stomach, and the warmth of the flame next to my face, I shrunk into the sand and finally fell asleep.

                                                                        ***

            For what felt like days, it could’ve been weeks, the eyes of the forest stared at me. It was as if it was begging me to take a walk inside, to see if I would find anything useful. Still, I refused. If something in the forest was useful for me, then I was probably prey for something else. But the berries on the trees were starting to become scarce, I was now eating one a day. The lack of fresh water on the shore was starting to show. I was skinnier than ever. My collarbone, elbows, and knee bones practically showed through my skin. You could see the crevices in my ribs and the hollow hole where my gut used to be.

I felt weaker by the day, and knew that if I didn’t find a way to get real food soon, I would die. I could feel death coming. But death didn’t feel scary as it slowly made its way toward me. But rather, like an old friend coming to say hello.  

Death told me not to enter the forest. And I knew death was right. There was a reason I had let myself wither away rather than search for nutrition. I do not know if death told me to avoid the forest because something was inside or because I was meant to be on the outside.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to survive. Maybe it was my destiny on this adventure. Maybe this, as grave as it was, was the reconnecting with my father. Had he died like this? Had he lost hope on a shore in the middle of the ocean. I gasped for breath, my mind spinning. I kneeled to the ground clutching my chest.

I knew this is how my father had died now. It was unexplainable, but I felt what he felt. Death whispered in my ear that it was true. I started to lie on the sand, now in a fetal position. I had never felt pain in my stomach like such before. It tore and ripped at my organs. I screamed for my mom but no one came. I started to cry but no tears would form. I laid thinking of my mother, of my father, my friends, and Mr. J.; about life and about death. It was weird, but I felt closer to my father than ever before. I could see him now. He was saying something to me. I yelled, “I can’t hear you! Speak up.”

Suddenly, he was next to me, “I said it’s okay son, tell Death it’s time.”

I looked up to see Death staring back and me, an old friend who had finally reached me. A Peter. A Mr. J. Death was ever changing to me but I found comfort in that solace. “Take me,” I mustered through dry lips. Death chuckled as he granted my wish.