Drifting

Kendra Rodriguez

The storm rocks the ship wildly from side to side. The sails flap violently in the wind. The mast creaks and groans. It sways dangerously. If it breaks, we’re in real trouble.

“Reef the sail,” shouts the boatswain over the roaring waves.

 My bare feet slip on the wet deck. Rain pours down and waves splash over the side, soaking everyone and everything. I join three other deckhands at the end of the clewline, the long rope attached to the bottom corner of the sail. If we don’t make the sail smaller, its harsh movements could break the mast and flip the ship.

“Heave,” shouts the boatswain.

“Heave,” everyone on the line echoes. Together, we pull on the line.

Nothing happens.

“Heave,” he shouts again.

Again, we repeat his command and heave on the line. The bottom corner of the sail should be folding in. Instead, the sail continues to thrash like a wild animal. We heave again. It doesn’t budge.

A loud rumble comes from the mast. We don’t have much time.

“There,” someone shouts, pointing towards the sky.

The dark sky and unending torrent of rain make it nearly impossible to see what they are pointing at. My eyes scan upwards. Directly underneath the sail we are trying to close is the yardarm, a wooden beam that runs perpendicular to the mast. The clewline is all twisted and wrapped around the yardarm. We can pull all night and it likely won’t come loose.

The boatswain points at me. “Cut that line,” he yells.

“Cut that line, aye.”

The mast sways as I climb. Each hand and foot placed on the next shroud feels like it could be my last as the rain pelts down and the wind threatens to rip me away from my task. Finally, I make it to the top.

I grasp onto the yardarm tightly and step onto the footrope that hangs below. It twists and swings dangerously as I shuffle my way over to the tangled line. With one arm wrapped tightly around yardarm, I pull my knife free from my belt. I lean over the wood and begin sawing at the clewline.

The ship rocks hard. The yardarm moves back and forth. A loud cracking sound cuts through the otherwise deafening noise of the storm. The yardarm shifts suddenly.

I saw the line faster. It is about an inch thick. My fingers are numb. My hands shake from the cold rain. I’m almost through. Just a bit more-

CRACK!

The yardarm snaps. Lines break. The ship rocks harshly towards one side. The knife flies from my hand. I wrap both arms around the yardarm and cling to it desperately as it careens down towards the ocean.

I meet the sea with bruising force. I push off of the yardarm and claw my way to the surface. Rain beats down as the waves press up. Water fills the space where the air should be. I swim hard as wave after wave knocks into me harshly.

A section of the clewline is wrapped around my arm. I wrap the rest of it around as well so it doesn’t drag and then I kick hard towards the direction of the ship. The mast is now completely broken and hanging over the side, dragging the ship. 

Even if I could swim to the ship in this storm, they wouldn’t be able to pull me up until after they dealt with the mast and the threat of capsizing. I need to keep myself safe in the water until they can fish me out. I look around for anything I can use as a makeshift flotation device.

There.

About fifty yards away is what looks like a fragment of the hull that must have broken off when the mast snapped and hit the side of the ship. I swim to it as fast as my body and the roaring waves will allow. The piece of wood is about seven feet long and three feet wide, with a jagged broken edge. The ribs are facing downwards, which means the top is mostly flat planks with a gentle curve. I grab onto one of the edges and hoist myself on top.

It rocks back and forth, threatening to throw me off. I unwind the length of line from my arm. Quickly, I fasten a clover hitch knot and tie off the line to the piece of hull. I tie the other end around my waist with just enough slack to move around if I need to. This way, if the waves knock me around I won’t lose my raft.

Laying on my stomach, I clutch the raft tightly. Saltwater sprays into my face and stings my eyes. My teeth chatter. My breath comes in quick gasps.

It won’t be too long, I tell myself. You just have to hold on for a little while. They’ll save you.

---

Waves splash gently against the edges of the hull fragment I’ve been living on for the last week or so, kicking salt into the blisters dotting my sunburned skin. My long-sleeved shirt was torn during my fall and now boasts two long gashes down the side. The fabric rustles in the breeze and brushes against my irritated skin, causing me to grit my teeth. The flesh around my waist is rubbed raw where the line sits.

My arm hangs next to me and my fingers trail through the warm water as my raft slowly drifts. Maybe it will catch the attention of a fish. Not that I have seen any fish. Or birds. Or anything besides the impossibly bright cerulean blue water.

Blue sky. Blue water. Blue thoughts.

My stomach aches relentlessly. It used to be a stomach, at least. Now it’s just an empty, angry space. I imagine it’s what the sky would feel if all the stars suddenly blinked out and disappeared. A desolate nothingness where there once was something. I haven’t had anything except desperate mouthfuls of rainwater the few times it rained throughout the week.

My thoughts keep drifting back to the salted pork I had as my last meal on the ship. It’s hard not to think about considering all I’ve smelled and tasted in the last week is salt. Ship’s food is decent enough, but it isn’t what I would have selected for a last meal. Back home, Ma made the best food. Beef stew with soft potatoes and rich broth. Freshly baked warm and flaky biscuits. Mouthwatering blackberry pie. Nothing compares to Ma’s cooking.

I imagine myself taking a bite of Ma’s beef stew. I picture the pale green bowl with the chip on one side, the one I’ve used since I was a kid. It would be filled to the brim with stew piled over rice. There would be swirls of steam coming from the bowl. The first bite would be perfectly hot. The meat would be tender and falling apart. The broth would be wonderfully seasoned.

I lick my dried, cracked lips at the thought. When the crew finds me and I get back to land, the first thing I’m going to do is go home and ask Ma to cook me a proper meal.

My days come in bits and pieces, broken up by short bouts of consciousness. The next time I open my eyes, the punishing sun is gone. I roll over so I’m laying on my back. The view of the immense black sky dotted by thousands of stars and swirling galaxies makes the less stable position worth it. Out here, the sky is so clear and bright. To the North, Polaris sits in its usual place, low in the sky. To the South, Sirius shines brighter than the others. Orion is with them, easily spotted by the three stars in his belt.

Growing up, I watched the sailors come and go. I listened as they sung their siren songs braided into tales of adventure. They told stories of a night sky that stretched farther than the eye could see. That lit up the night so fiercely it put entire cities to shame. When I became a sailor, I spent nearly every night watching the sunset and waiting for the stars to rise. I studied the sky, learned every constellation.

Now, the stars watch as tears streak down my face and my aching body is wracked with sobs.

The sun is high in the sky, beaming down mercilessly. The wind blows harder today and the sea is choppy. My stomach is tight with nausea. My head hurts deeply. My limbs are heavy. My eyes are tired.

Cracks line my lips like some sort of intricate maze with no ending. Salt crystals line my cheeks. My tongue lays limp in my mouth, missing moisture like an old, dried-out sponge.

An object looms in the distance. It grows closer. At first I think it’s a shark coming for an easy meal. I don’t lift my head. Let the shark come.

As the object grows bigger, the possibility of it being a shark goes away. The shadow moves. It has great big arms that dance and swirl in the breeze. Some kind of monster then. Perhaps it is Death himself, finally come to give me a break. A blurriness has already settled into the corners of my exhausted mind. It was only a matter of time.

The raft stops with a sudden force. I’m thrown forward and land with a heavy thud. The line connecting me to the raft pulls tight against my waist. I try to pull myself back onto the raft, but feet sink into the sand underneath.

The sand.

I stop moving. I force my eyes to focus as much as they can.

The object. It’s an island.

Dragging the raft behind me, I will my weary legs to carry me through the shallow water to the island. I’m afraid to blink in case it isn’t real.

The island is tiny. It looks to be about forty feet long. Its sole inhabitants are two coconut trees standing tall and proud. Coconuts are strewn about the sand like litter. I fall to my knees at the first coconut I see. It’s green and it’s heavy in my weakened arms.

I need to get through the husk. I inspect the edges of the raft for any particularly jagged pieces of wood that I could use as a makeshift knife. I find something even better. There, where the worst of the damage is, is a broken spike that used to connect the fragment to the ship.

It hurts, badly. I ignore the pain and summon every bit of strength that I can find. I run the coconut over the spike again and again until pieces of the husk start to fall away. It takes a long time. A pile of green husk gathers at my feet. Eventually, I come to the inside of the coconut. I locate the coconut’s eyes. One is softer than the others. I jam the end of the spike into it. Once. Twice.

Finally.

The spike breaks through and I tilt the coconut to meet my lips. Sweet, fresh coconut water floods my mouth like a dried out riverbed being filled. It pools against my tongue and rinses away the grittiness from the salt crystals that have taken over my mouth. I guzzle down the water greedily like a plant experiencing rain for the first time after a horrible drought.

Once I’ve finished the water, I use the spike to widen the hole. I scoop out the coconut meat with my fingers. Nothing has ever tasted better.

Exhaustion overwhelms me, but I refuse to give in. I need to make a fire first. It’s windy here. I drag my raft to one of the coconut trees and untie the rope from my waist. I set the raft on its side against the tree so that it blocks some of the wind and secure it to the base of the tree so it won’t go anywhere.

I gather as many palm fronds as I can find laying on the beach as well as the husk from the coconut I just ate. I peel a sharp piece of dry wood off of the top of the raft and use the spike to make it even sharper. It takes a few minutes to pull off another, flatter piece of wood, but I manage. After placing some of my husk pieces down a safe distance away from both the tree and the raft, I press the sharp piece into the flat piece and rub it back and forth in my palms.

It takes what feels like hours. My hands burn from the effort. My entire body feels like it is going to collapse from exertion. Finally, I get a tiny ember and I blow on it until it grows. I add more pieces until the fire is large enough. Relieved, I collapse into the sand. I only hope that the next time I open my eyes, I’m on this beach with my small fire and not still floating aimlessly in the ocean. Imagination is a funny thing.

The crab scuttles away quickly. I follow behind with a rock, swinging wildly. I miss the first try. The crab raises its claws at me threateningly. The rock connects with a loud crack on the second try and the crab stumbles forward before it falls lifeless onto the sand.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice dry and raspy from lack of use.

I gingerly pick up the crab and bring it to my little shelter under the tree. I duck under the palm fronds I had to add as a second wall to keep out the wind that never seems to stop. I set the crab onto a flat rock and let it cook in the fire. When it has cooled sufficiently, I use the original rock to crack the shell open.

I scoop the meat out with my fingers and shove it into my mouth hungrily. Over the many days that I have spent on this island, I’ve learned how to cook the crab just right and to get most of the meat out without wasting any. Ma would be proud.

Once I finish, I go back to the beach where several coconut halves sit securely in the sand. I pick one up and inspect it for any sort of debris before I drink the rainwater that has collected inside. I set it back into its place for the next time it rains.

I collect loose palm fronds that have fallen throughout the day and put them in a pile just inside my shelter, far enough away from the fire that they will be safe. I’ll use them to replenish the fire as it starts to die down.

Finally, I sit on the beach on the gritty sand that perpetually clings to my body and look out at the water. The sun is starting to set, and the sky has changed from its normal bright blue into hues of orange, pink, and yellow. The sun dips low in the sky, looking almost as if it is melting into the water.

I wonder if my crew is still out there. If they managed to save their sinking ship. The sun fades and the air cools. Tomorrow, the ocean will still be blue, and the horizon will still be empty. I stand up and head back to the safety of my shelter. I don’t know how long I have been on this island. I’ve stopped counting the days.

The storm comes quick, fierce, and without mercy.

The rain crashes down, swept sideways by strong gusts of wind. The palm fronds I used for my shelter are ripped away. The raft is blown around wildly and smacks against the tree. Pieces of wood splinter and snap. The line tied to the tree strains under the weight as it is pulled tight. The fire is destroyed.

Coconuts are lifted from the sand and launched into the water. Huge waves break onto the beach as the shoreline washes away. The island isn’t wide enough. Any one of these waves could pull me back into the ocean.

I need to get the line free so I can tie myself to the tree. I’m just not entirely sure how to do that without cutting myself on the raft’s jagged wood, exposed nails, and spikes.

Thinking fast, I throw myself onto the raft. It bucks under my body weight like a wild horse unwilling to be tamed. I will my cold fingers to make quick work of the knots in the line. I push away the sense of dread in my stomach telling me how close this is to what happened last time.

The line comes loose. It is slick from the rain and frayed from heavy strain. I almost drop it twice. A wave crashes just behind me, splashing my already soaked body. I just need to wrap it around me and-

A wave slaps me in the back. It knocks me off of the raft and slams my shoulder against the tree. The line slips from my hands. Another wave hits before I get my footing. My feet slide in the wet sand as I’m dragged backwards. A wave breaks over my head, pushing me down.

I don’t think I’m on the island anymore, but the water shouldn’t be this deep here. I should be able to stand. My toes barely scrape against the sand as I try to get on my feet. The storm is making the waves too big and the current too strong. The waves knock me down as the current pulls me out. Before I know it, I can’t feel the sand at all.

I can’t see anything over the waves. Even if I could see, every time I get my head above the water a wave knocks me back down. Fear begins to choke me as much as the water does. I cough more than I breathe. Water pushes into my nose and mouth. As two waves crash over my head in quick succession it dawns on me how lucky I was to survive this the first time.

Without anything to hold onto, I am tossed around like a tumbleweed. My shoulder throbs and aches where I collided with the tree. My body is numb from the suddenly cold water. Exhaustion works its way through my limbs. The simple act of keeping my head out of the water feels as if it takes too much energy.

The storm continues on for what feels like hours. My limbs grow heavier.

Just a few more minutes, I tell myself.

It will stop soon.

It has to stop soon.

I’m not sure how much longer I can tread in this tumultuous water. I’m not sure how much longer I want to.

For hours, the storm drags my body through the water as if I am nothing more than a stray piece of driftwood. Maybe I am. Maybe I stopped being myself the moment I fell into the water the first time.

The wind is dying down, the waves following suit. The unending grey storm clouds relent and the sky begins its normal routine of changing from a bruised purple color to pink, orange, then finally blue. The sun takes its place above and winks down at me as I float.

A dark grey fin breaks through the surface of the water a few feet away with a loud splash. Then another one on my other side. Startled, I lift my heavy head to get a better view. I let out a loud yelp and attempt to scramble backwards in the water as one surfaces directly in front of me. Dark eyes and a wide, smiling mouth full of needle-like teeth greet me. A dolphin. I’m surrounded by a pod of dolphins.

Relief floods me. The dolphin closest to me makes a loud whistling noise and nudges me with its nose. It presses its body against my side like it wants me to hold on. I reach out tentatively. When it doesn’t react, I wrap my arm around its fin. The dolphin’s skin is slippery and smooth.

A feeling of pure bliss wraps itself around me when I no longer have to move my aching arms and legs. My injured shoulder is stiff and bruised, my arm hanging loosely in the water.

The dolphins leap from the water and make what I can only assume are happy whistling noises. They seem like gentle, playful creatures.  For several hours, they swim with me, almost as if they’re leading me somewhere. I’ve heard stories of shipwrecked sailors being saved by dolphins. Is that what they’re doing? Did I hit my head as well as my shoulder? Perhaps this is all some sort of concussed dream.

The dolphin I have been resting on gently untangles itself from my grasp. It gives me one last friendly whistle before swimming away, the rest of the pod following suit.

“No, no, no,” I beg. “Please don’t go.”

They don’t turn around. I am alone once again.

The midday sun beats down on my weathered body. I miss the shade, the coconuts, the relative safety of the island. A wave splashes my face. Then another. The salt stings and I shut my eyes. The waves are picking up. Not another storm. I can’t live through another storm.

There is a strange sound, almost like something heavy breaking through the waves. I pry my eyes open. A big shape blots out the sun. Another storm cloud? Except it isn’t moving in the slow crawl customary to clouds. Whatever this is, it must be what is causing the waves.

The shape gets closer. It’s…

It’s a ship! The dolphins led me to a ship.

“Hey,” I shout. “Help!”

I wave my tired arm in the air. “Help! Please!”

Shrill whistles and shouts pierce the air. “Man overboard,” someone yells.

A life ring is thrown into the water, attached to a rope. I clutch it with the small bit of strength I have left. The sailors above are yelling commands to each other. Someone shouts for the ship’s doctor. They begin hauling me up.

I breath out a heavy sigh. It’s over. It’s finally over.

---

Kendra Rodriguez
Kendra Rodriguez is a fiction writer and poet who is currently working on her debut fantasy novel. She earned her M.A. in Professional and Creative Writing from Central Washington University in December 2025. Her poem "Unbidden Memories" was published in Poor Yorick's 2025 Spring Edition.