Castle of Water: A Novel(32)
And so, with no fanfare, but with plenty of determination and no small amount of relief—that moment of indecision had been far more excruciating than all the possible outcomes that scrolled through his mind—Barry put away the radio and the flareless gun and, using his glow-in-the-dark compass, began to reposition the log in a southern direction. Back to the island, back toward Sophie. And he did so with a smile, as incredible as it seemed. If the gods were going to have a joke at his expense, Barry decided, then nothing was going to stop him from laughing right along with them. While they were busy chuckling, he just might actually make it home.
He kicked for a while but quickly came around to the inefficiency of that means of propulsion. He did, however, have the raft paddles rolled up in the duffel bag, and it occurred to him that he might as well give one a try. He pulled himself out of the water and straddled the palm log, sinking the paddle into the waves to push it along. The whole affair was unsteady, occasionally rolling to one side or the other, but it worked. Almost like a canoe, which got Barry thinking, but other more pressing issues demanded his attention.
He kept on paddling straight through the cloud-black night, and a cotton candy–colored sunrise saw him doing the same the next day. The sky had yet to totally clear, and an occasional drizzle peppered the water and misted his skin, but the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. He checked the compass periodically to maintain his position, and he sang old FM hits to help stay awake. He even talked to himself to keep himself company, imaginary conversations he knew he might never have the chance to actually have. He spoke at great length with his parents, caught up with college roommates, and even had a few choice things to say to his ex-girlfriend Ashley. When the sun finally set and that first rash of stars broke out above, he couldn’t help wondering what his old co-workers were doing in New York at that moment, and he laughed out loud when he imagined them stirring their single-malt Scotches and complaining about their six-figure bonuses. The notion that he, now paddling his log alone across the darkened Pacific, had once been among them was almost too absurd for him to believe.
The last traces of the cyclone had vanished by the second morning; the sky and sea regained at least some of their turquoise charms. The sun beat down upon his bare shoulders, but he was tan enough by that point to tarry the burn. In the afternoon, a speck shimmied out of the horizon; two hours later, he could make out once again the cone of rock and the shag of the palms. It was so close … When the log finally ground to a halt on the island’s sand, he felt like weeping. Sweet Jesus, it felt good to stumble onto dry land, no matter how small or isolated its acreage might be. He couldn’t wait to surprise Sophie on the other side of the island, to dump at her beautiful feet the precious duffel bag he had saved. He debated whether or not to tell her about the ships he had seen but decided that was something best saved for another time. He wasn’t sure how she would react to the news, and the last thing she needed was another disappointment. And using up all the flares—that was a whole other can of worms, one he was certainly in no hurry to open.
Barry cut straight through the palm forest and past the rocks to save time, taking notice of the damage with an exclamatory whistle. Palms were rent, debris all a-scatter. Then he was pushing aside some downed foliage and emerging by the campsite, or at least what remained of it.
“Honey, I’m home!” he croaked out from his parched throat, the smile on his face splitting open his horribly chapped lips.
And there she was … standing beside a palm tree, with a rope around her neck.
“Sophie, what on earth are you—”
And before he could finish she was upon him, shedding the noose and tackling him to the ground, in the most colossal hug he had ever received in his life. She sobbed for quite some time, and so did he, and at some point they were both laughing, and at some point after that, they both said they were sorry.
For everything. And Barry didn’t regret for one moment turning that log back around, back toward Sophie, back toward home.
24
The salad days of Barry’s return were sweet indeed, but truth be told, their island was in absolute shambles. The joy of their reunion quickly gave way to the realization that there was lots of work to be done to get things back to working order. The hammock was beyond repair, but Sophie was able to recover the tarp and refashion the shelter; harvesting the palm fronds took time, but layer by layer, over the course of several days, she rethatched their tropical home. While she kept busy with the house, Barry took on the unpleasant chore of bailing the salt water that filled their two rain cisterns. It was a grueling endeavor, dumping water bag after water bag of brine out onto the sand, but it had serious ramifications—getting the pools refilled with fresh rainwater was paramount, because without them, they had nothing to drink.
Well, almost nothing. For in the initial kit of survival supplies was the solar still. And it was fortunate indeed that Barry had been able to salvage the bag and bring it back to the island, because in the miserable weeks that followed, it was the only thing that kept them alive. The amount of potable water it was able to distill from the sea was never more than a few cups per day. Those measly sips, however, were enough to keep Barry and Sophie going through three grinding weeks of thirst, until at last, heralded by a symphony of thunder, the clouds burst once again, filling their water pools all the way to the brim. The two of them leapt and danced in celebration, Sophie a “rock and roll” dance her father had taught her as a girl to a Beatles’ record, Barry a sort of improvised Irish jig he made up on the spot.