It doesn’t matter that it’s a big fucking boat, I’m getting massively seasick again.
It’s bad enough I’m starving and dehydrated and I’m so sunburned I feel like a piece of beef jerky. Trying to keep anything down in the stormy seas is nearly impossible, even though this vessel is so big that its motions feel more like a gently rocking hammock than what we endured in the life raft while being tossed around in the storm.
The men in the launch who rescued us didn’t speak a word of English, and I didn’t fucking care, because apparently “starving, crying woman” translates into well into any language.
Lucky me.
I have to be carried, and I even remembered to grab my purse.
They get us all into the launch. I reach for George and they let me lie there with my head in his lap. Connie leans against his other side, and like that we all start crying as Allen and Collin lean on each other where they’re sitting on the other side of the launch.
They also recover Lisa’s body.
George holds on to me so I don’t roll around. I really need to remember to tell Carter to send him a bottle of something good to drink for taking care of me and not letting me give up.
Somehow, I don’t think either of my men are going to mind or feel jealous.
I do, however, feel sad for George, that he’ll now have to process his grief. At least he’s got three kids to focus on, and they’ll need him, I’m sure.
They transport us back to their huge-ass fishing vessel. I mean, this ain’t no goddamnedUSS Minnow, this is a fuckingship. One that looks even bigger than the ones I’ve seen onDeadliest Catch. I don’t know what kind of fish they catch, but I don’t care, either.
Honestly? They could be clubbing baby seals with Flipper at this point, and serving them in blue whale soup in a shark fin bowl, and I wouldn’t give a flying fuck, as long as they plucked our asses off that goddamned rock.
I’d even settle for a crab boat.
The captain’s English, while passible, isn’t great. He tells us the military—whose, I have no clue—is flying out a medic team they’ll drop to us. There is another storm approaching, and they’re afraid that if they try to transfer us to a helicopter, or to another vessel, bad things could happen.
Sorry, I’ve been in one plane crash, and technically shipwrecked. I’d rather not add a helicopter crash to round out the hat trick.
The medics eventually arrive. Meanwhile, the others can sip water and electrolyte solutions and keep it down, but I can’t. I’m puking again.
I can tell from the medics’ tones and concerned expressions that they are more worried about my condition than they are the other four. I can’t understand the medics. I don’t know what they’re speaking. It’s definitely not Spanish, so I’m pretty well fucked. The vessel captain’s English isn’t very good when it comes to medical terminology. The others have IVs, too, but the medics have a hard time getting one started in me, at first. They finally get one started, and they pump fluids and medications into me through it. They bring me ice chips to suck, but the cold is too painful in my parched mouth.
Someone thinks to wet a clean wash cloth, and I can suck on that. We’re told we have to be very careful not to drink or eat too much right now, because it could literally kill us. Something pings my mind, and I remember reading about that once, a long time ago, but then again, maybe not. My brain is pretty well scrambled at this point.
A barely used tube of lip balm is scrounged from somewhere, and Connie and I are bogarting it, even though we do allow George, Allen, and Collin to use it.
Maybe I died andthisis Hell?
Over the next twelve hours or so, they question us, get our names, realize who we are and where we came from, and I beg for someone to please tell Carter and Owen I’m alive. My stomach eventually settles. Whatever they’re pumping into my IV is making me sleepy. They’ve got all five of us crammed in a very small and primitive sick bay space that reminds me of an old fifties TV show set.
They’ve helped us change into used but clean plain T-shirts and sweat pants, but I want a damn shower, I want to wash my hair.
I want to shave my fucking legs and armpits and the kitty, and fuck anyone who says that isn’t very feminist of me.
I want the comforts of home, dammit. Barring that, I want to at least feel human again.
Meanwhile, I’ll just lie here, since I can’t even fuckingwalk.
I also want to talk to Carter and Owen, but I fuck if I can remember Carter’s cell number right now, or Owen’s. I’m lucky I can remember my own date of birth and Social Security number.
Honestly?
I literally thought I wasdead. I’m certain after another day on the island that I would have been. I’m still not sure I’m going to make it right now, if I’m not too far gone already. Maybe I even would have started drinking sea water like Lisa did.
I know they took her body somewhere else on the ship. I feel badly for her family and hope I don’t have to face them any time soon. I can’t yet.
At least Connie’s alive. I couldn’t help Mike, but at least I kept Connie alive.
