Cristelle Comby - Alone Together

The finished boat was so small, it barely deserved the label, so I chose to refer to it as a raft. It was large enough to accommodate the two of us, but we were going to have to let go of a lot of our previous supplies… ‘a lot’ as in, ‘most of them’. I should have been worried by that, but I wasn’t. We didn’t need to take that many supplies with us. We had no intention of staying on the raft for too long. A couple of days at the most; time enough to find land, I hoped.

Hell, maybe ‘raft’ was too kind a name for the bunch of branches and spare plane parts we’d cobbled together. If this contraption lasted us more than a day or two without coming apart, we should consider ourselves lucky.

That left us two days, three at most, to find a shoreline. Otherwise, we’d die at sea from the cold, the hunger or both. In the privacy of my own thoughts, I prayed for the best… even as I braced myself for the worst.

The open sea was something I’d always feared. I was committed to meeting deadlines, making goals for myself, reaching milestones. Out here, none of that was possible. The only thing one was able to do on a boat like ours was to sit and wait. And that was only if one was even able to stay dry. If not, all you’d be doing was treading water, waiting for the moment you’d invariably lose the fight and the depths swallow you whole. I’d already gone through that one. I knew now that I didn’t want to end it like that, a forgotten soul lost in the steel blue darkness. I hoped we were ready. We have to be , I told myself. If we not , we ’re gonna die .

After we’d put the finishing touches on our raft and loaded up the supplies, we said our farewells to the island. Me, I’d have just climbed on board and paddled away, but Anne-Marie seemed to want to make this out to be much more ritualistic than it needed to be. She touched the ground with a loving caress, closing her eyes while breathing slow, deep breaths. Her voice was a soft murmur on the wind as she said, what I assumed, were her goodbyes. I, for one, was as happy as a sandboy to leave this rock. No looking back for me, thank you. But my companion had earned her moment of contemplation or whatever it was, so I stood by her side, silent.

When she looked back up to me, she had the eyes of a wild huntress. She smirked the type of halfway smile one does when they know something that you don’t… but they’re excited for you to see the outcome just the same. I had no idea what far-fetched thought had just crossed her mind. I had no intention of figuring it out either.

We carried the ship to the beach, walking in sync, each in step with the other, readying ourselves to embark on one last journey. I was sure if Anne-Marie could speak my language, she’d tell me, “It’s not about the journey, it’s about the destination,” or some such nonsense. Leaving our mismatched raft high enough to where the oncoming tide wouldn’t get in, we started loading our craft up.

Our departure was scheduled for the very next day, at neap tide—an extremely low tide. It’d make our path off the island harder to navigate, what with the rocks closer to the surface, but it’d also mean fewer waves trying to push us back ashore, which was what we were counting on. Once we began taking notes—measuring the tides with a long, graduated stick planted in the ocean—it was easy to see their pattern and the moon’s influence on such. Extreme high tides happened during full moons and new moons, and low tide occurred seven days later. The full moon was seven days ago, meaning we’d have a waxing crescent to look forward to tonight.

We lit a fire by the few scraps that remained of the tail-end of the Airbus. Now there was little left beyond the tail itself and the galley. Gone too was the shelter we’d built on the beach, as much of a memory as the warmth of summer. Under the crescent moon’s faint glow, Anne-Marie and I shared our final supper on this merciless land mass, huddling close to one another for warmth.

I let myself lean in closer than I’d ever allowed. For once, the companionship meant more than the warmth. Anne-Marie welcomed me, not seeming to mind the close proximity as one of her arms sneaked around my back, as though it were a habitual thing. As we hugged each other by the fire, it occurred to me that my companion was no stranger to this. She was more of the touchy-feely type than I—much more, if we’re being honest. But I held on, realising that I wanted this moment, needed it. It was a memory I would carry with me for a long time afterwards… provided we survived what came next.

As the night enveloped us, cloaking us in its shadows, I felt glad for the silence and our inability to talk. I don’t think I could have found the words. Though I knew this was our last night on the island, it didn’t really hit me until then. That’s when I think I understood Anne-Marie’s need to have a proper goodbye earlier. The way she’d stroked the sand so lovingly… She’d forged a relationship with this island, let it become part of her. And Anne-Marie loved herself… all of it.

And somewhere in that big heart of hers, she’d made room for me too.

I wished that I loved myself half as much as she did. But I didn’t… couldn’t Maybe that was my critical mistake; the one misaligned detail that derailed the entire system and that, if corrected, would allow the machine to run to its optimum capacity. Or maybe it’d help me learn how to be a better human being.

Nestled in my friend’s arms, not alone for the first time in a long time, I made a vow to myself. If we got off this island alive, I would make a concentrated effort to try. I promised myself I would. As I said the words in my head, Anne-Marie held me tighter and tighter, as if she knew. I just had the strangest feeling that she did, somehow.

When night began to fall on us, I wondered if an efficiency analyst would finish his report of my character by saying, “And I believe that to be the ideal correction course.”

As gruelling as it had been, getting the ship ready was the easy part. Getting it off the island was another matter.

We’d both swam enough to know the currents were strong all around the island. They were relentless, pushing everything back where it came from. It was as if the island had a single mindset: keep us here at all costs.

We’d have to fight it, long and hard, if we wanted to get away.

The morning we took our boat to sea, we had the best conditions we possibly could hope for. A low tide, little to no wind coming from the ocean, early hours of the day with the sun a mere haze on the horizon. I’d hoped for more light, but we couldn’t wait and risk the breeze picking up.

Neither of us said anything while we pushed our raft into the surf. By this point, the only words that could have helped were prayers. But I wasn’t the praying type and I didn’t think Killian was either.

The cold morning water bit into us but we pushed on, going as far in as we could before the water reached our hips, then we both climbed onboard. With all the stuff we’d packed, there wasn’t much leg room. Killian took to the oars and I sat huddled on the left side, my weight counterbalancing the stuff we’d packed on the right.

He started rowing against the current while I kept an eye out for underwater rocks and flotsam. While rowing backwards may have sounded impractical, it was actually the most efficient technique. Boats have been rowed backward since the dawn of time, because the human body has its muscle power concentrated in the back muscles, shoulders and biceps. It makes pulling a more efficient motion than pushing, the rower less fatigued, more energy transferred to the oars, and the vessel traveling farther with each stroke.