Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

Cold water. The great white shark was a cold-water creature, wasn’t it? Didn’t fishermen catch great whites in these waters? Clips from the filmJaws flashed through his mind. A naked girl hanging desperately on to a buoy as the giant fish tore its way through her lower extremities. At least he wasn’t naked, though he knew he could swim faster if he were. He thought about kicking off his shoes, but they didn’t seem to be slowing him down, and anyway, he had paid six hundred and fifty dollars to have them made. He’d hang on to the shoes.

He thought about making love to Betty the night before, but then he recalled that Betty was responsible for his being where he was, and he thought about Barbara Tierney instead. Where was she now Drinking champagne aboard Ippolito’s yacht, anchored at Catalina? Or was the yacht really there? Or was there really a yacht? Yes, there was; he recalled the bank manager telling him that Ippolito had a veritable flotilla-was that the word he had used? Stone had already been aboard two of Ippolito’s boats, albeit briefly.

He tried a sidestroke but began sinking, so he went back to his crippled dog paddle. There was no way to rest-the chain prevented that-so he slogged on, stroke after stroke, kick after kick, gulp after gulp of air, on and on into the night. At this rate he might miss Catalina entirely and continue on toward Hawaii.

The lights were closer now, but not that much closer, and he was fading. His strokes were getting shorter and slower, and nothing his brain could say to his muscles would make them work better or longer. Thank God there isn’t a sea running, he thought; I’d be dead by now. He thought about dying and discovered that he wasn’t ready to do it. The thought gave him new strength, but not much; you couldn’t call it a second wind, hardly that. He thought about Arrington and the child she carried inside her. Was it his? If he died tonight, would there be a son to carry on the Barrington name, such as it was? No, he would carry on the Calder name, no matter to whom he owed his DNA.

He lurched onward, but something was wrong. The mast lights were no longer visible. He turned his head and looked around; had he gotten off course? He was sure he hadn’t, so he paddled on. Then something very strange happened; he reached out in front of him with his bound hands, pulled the Pacific Ocean toward him and struck his head very hard on a very hard object.

Dazed, he put out his hands and they met the object, too; it was smooth and dark, and he couldn’t hold on to it. With new, brief strength he turned and swam parallel to it, and he came to its end. It was a small boat with a black hull, and at its stem there was the most wonderful thing: a boarding ladder. He grasped it in both hands and laid his cheek against the hull, panting and whimpering.

After a moment, he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He shook his head. “No!” he screamed as loudly as he could, and it wasn’t very loud. The ladder unfolded in his hands and the bottom rung fell into the water as it had been designed to do, for swimmers. He got his feet on the rung, which was about a foot underwater, and tried to stand on it, but his hands slipped and he fell sideways into the water.

He had so little strength left now; he began to think that perhaps it would feel better if he just gave himself to the sea and let everything go. But he couldn’t; he had one more try in him, he was sure. He lurched toward the ladder again and got his feet on the bottom rung. Holding a higher rung with both hands, he pulled himself upward until he was standing with his knees locked. He stayed that way for a good minute, hearing the water running from his clothes, back into the sea. The next rung would be harder, since he no longer had any buoyancy.

He reached up and grabbed the stainless stee railing above him with his two hands, then, holding on for dear life, he pulled his feet up and felt for the next rung. Miraculously, he found it. The deck of the little yacht was now at the level of his knees, and he could get his arms over the top steel railing. That allowed him to pull his feet on the deck, and with his last strength, he pushed himself over the railing and fell headlong into the cockpit. Almost immediately, he was unconscious.

He half awoke with a start, thinking that he had heard a woman scream, then he fell back into a stupor. The boat under him moved, annoying him; he wanted to sleep, and the cradle was rocking.

“Holy shit!” a man’s voice said loudly.

Stone tried to tell him to shut up, but his voice wouldn’t work. He went back to sleep.

“Give him CPR,” a woman’s voice said.

“He doesn’t need CPR,” the man replied, “he’s breathing, and he has a pulse.”

“Why are his hands like that?” she asked.

“How the fuck should I know, Jennifer?” the man asked, exasperated.

Stone, who had been lying on his right side, tried to turn onto his back.

“He moved!” she said.

“So he can move; big deal. Go below and get my rigging knife; it’s on the chart table.”

“But he might be dangerous,” she said.

“In his present condition, he’s not dangerous to anybody,” the man replied. “Now go below and get me the knife. Jesus, he’s got a length of anchor chain shackled to him; bring me the pliers, too.”

Stone drifted off again, then he was moving, but he wasn’t doing the moving. He opened his eyes.

“He’s conscious,” the man said. “Can you talk, sir?”

Stone’s mouth wobbled, but nothing came out.

“Get me some water,” the man said.

A moment later Stone tasted something fresh and sweet. He swallowed some, then some more. Then he vomited it back up, along with some salt water.

“Take some more,” the man said. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Ah min fuff,” Stone said.

“Don’t try to talk yet; just drink some more water, and take some deep breaths.”

Stone swirled some of the water around in his mouth and spat it out, then drank some more.

“Gd,” he said.

“Don’t talk; plenty of time for that later. Jennifer, go below and bring me a couple of dry towels.”

“Okay,” she said. She was back in a moment, dabbing at Stone’s face.

Stone began to shiver violently, his teeth chattering loudly.

The man got the shackle loose and removed the chain. “Help me get this suit off him,” the man said. “Let’s get all his clothes off; he’ll never get warm while he’s sopping wet.”

This took some time, and Stone wasn’t much help. Finally he was naked, and both people were drying him with the towels.

“Can you stand up?” the man asked.

Stone tried to speak, failed, then nodded.

“Help me with him, Jennifer; we’ve got to get him below and into a sleeping bag; he’s hypothermic.”

Stone, with their help, got onto a cockpit seat, still shaking, then got his feet onto the companionway ladder. In another moment he was lying on a saloon berth being zipped into a clammy sleeping bag.

“Boil some water and make some of that instant soup,” the man ordered.

Gradually, the shivering went away, and they got Stone into a sitting position and were feeding him hot soup from a cup.

“Thank you,” he managed to say.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man replied. “I think we ought to get you to a hospital, but I don’t think there’s one on Catalina.”

Stone shook his head. “No,” he said.

“You don’t want to go to a hospital?”

“No. I’m dead.”

“You’re not dead, but I think you had a pretty close call.”

“Stay dead,” Stone said.

“You want to stay dead?”

Stone nodded. “Gotta.”

“Just finish the soup and get some rest; you’ll feel better soon.”