The Raft

The raft was a bucking mule and he had to hang onto the burls in the logs. His hands were raw from hanging on. Every time the raft lurched, he pressed himself to the logs, but his feet would swing way out over the water, and the waves would roll over. He was breathing hard. Water was in his eyes and ears and mouth. It was taking over.

The smell of the raft made him think of his grandfather's cabin, and while he felt images of hot fireplaces and full tables with white tablecloths and white bowls with steam miraging the air above them, thunder cracked the sky. The raft dipped. He lost his grip. His left hand dragged over the logs. The skin tore. The box of supplies was tied to the raft more securely than he was, but the ropes were making noise. He heard the stutter and creak, even over the wind and water. And the thunder boomed again.

His left hand was bleeding and his right hand was going numb from the cold. Choppy waves circled him like sharks. He squinted. Nothing to see ahead, to the left. He couldn’t turn his head enough to see behind him, and he didn't dare change his grip. His grip was keeping him alive. He was staining the raft red. Nothing to see. Nothing to hear except the wind, shouting into his ear. The raft tipped, his legs swung around.

It was becoming almost routine. And then the ropes holding the box of supplies just fizzled. They unwound like smoke from a snuffed candle. Flapping snake tongues, they uncoiled and the box slid down the raft. He reached out for it with his left hand, but his left hand was useless now. He sat up and lunged for the box, but the slippery raft was speeding it along, toward the edge, and the hungry ocean that waited for everything. His canteen, some matches, his wallet in a plastic bag with a seal, some hard candy. The box hesitated at the lip of the raft. A wave reared up and plucked it over the side. He couldn't tell the splash it made from the war of noise that surrounded him. His left hand was still staining the raft red.