My prop soon slowed to nothing and I prepared to hit
the drink - tightened chest strap, braced myself in the pit, built up speed
and went in praying. It was a terrific jolt but I wasn't injured. I threw
out my rubber raft, inflated my life jacket and jumped out as my wildcat
slid under.
Sometime when you run out of exercise, try scrambling
into an inflated rubber raft. There may be some of athletic mold that can
manage such a business neatly. Me - I scrambled like a turtle anchored by
the tail, but after throwing off my shoes in on the last flounder - and that's
what counts.
After fitting the oars I set out for my island, the
top outline of which was just barely visible on the dark horizon. It seemed
an interminable distance to negotiate in a little rubber raft. It was. Perhaps
we should all be spared the recounting of that grueling endless grind. Many
times I was tempted to quit, to just sink down and drift into oblivion of
rest. But I knew the fellows would remember our rendezvous at the little
round island and from some mysterious second store of strength, I would find
the hope and courage to go on. Little things stand out. The layer or two
of skin that came off my palms. The little phosphorescent sparks in the water,
made by the oars. Row on, row on to the little island. The great brown bird
that followed in the troughs of the waves, doing flipper turns until I was
sure he would catch a wing tip and spin in. It was fascinating but when he
tried to land on my raft, I had to beat him off. That sharp beak could have
been as fatal as a machine gun bullet through my inflated boat. Row on. Another
stroke, another. The island was gone now; only the cloud mass that seems
always to hang over South Pacific Islands was visible. Row on. Row on towards
the clouds.
I don't know when I slept. My next awareness was that
of a slit of daylight coming over the edge of my raft and under the life
jacket lying on my face. And then I saw my island only a few miles away and
there was never a prettier sight.
My heart welled up with thanks - then stopped in mid-beat
while an icy frost ran along my veins. For just outside my frail little boat
murderous fins were cutting the water in vicious slashes. Sharks: Not one
shark, a gathering of sharks. And a thin diaphragm of yellow rubber separated
me from the waters among them. I made no motion; sheer terror had turned
me into a little stone.
Now I realize that man may not select the manner of
his own demise. But may I choose at least one fate for exclusion. Without
hesitation, it is the shard route. I will trade it for all your horror endings
laid end for end and throw in my Chinese dollar luck piece to boot. Certain
persons of some experience have since told me I was in little danger. The
sharks were just browsing around. Indeed, they have gone so far as to say
that I could have frightened them away by beating my oar in the water. Someday
I may go berserk and offer to brush tiger's teeth, but you will never find
me fanning my paddle in the face of a shark. No, that convention of sea demons
was in my honor - and even a disinterested eye could see that they were impatient
to get on with the business. Experts may hold to the contrary. I do not argue,
but the sharks and I know better. At any rate, my paralysis finally wore
them down and they swam off. Slowly, painfully, I began to breath. It was
then I saw our rescue plane circle the little island and then fly away in
the opposite direction.
There was no help for it. Slowly I assumed my
paddling position on my knees and rowed forward towards the surf with
aching hands and spirits very low.
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