Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

The salty air and water he’d inhaled had entered his larynx. This, combined with his constant yelling for Jimmy, caused his vocal folds to hemorrhage. The tissue in his voice box had ruptured and filled with blood. In addition to not emitting any sounds, it became extremely painful to try.

Peter slammed his fist on the center post of the WaveRunner’s handlebars. He rubbed the rain mixed with salt water from his face again, although within seconds the moisture would return. He looked to the sky and prayed for it to end.

It didn’t, so he continued his quest. He rode for thirty more minutes in an effort to locate his friend, to no avail. He stopped to regroup; then he widened his arc. The minutes turned to hours, and Peter Albright began to cry in despair.

He couldn’t believe he’d allowed this to happen to Jimmy, who was like his brother. He was responsible for his safety, and Jimmy had trusted him to deliver him to shore. And during it all, he’d lost track of where he was. One minute he was just behind him. The next, he was gone.

Peter contemplated going to shore and coming back with a search team. He inwardly chastised himself for waiting so long to make this decision. Could Jimmy have been saved hours ago if he’d sought help? Maybe, but Peter still couldn’t see any part of the shoreline that enclosed Blackwater Sound, much less Key Largo. For all he knew, he could be riding the WaveRunner toward the hammocks or, worse, back toward the Overseas Highway and a contingent of guardsmen.

He decided he had no choice but to abandon his search and seek help. Even if he rode consistently in the wrong direction, he could at least find land and, along with it, his bearings. From there, he’d stick close to the shoreline, where his biggest concern would be running aground.

With a new sense of purpose, he set his jaw, strengthened his resolve, and raced into the darkness, focused on keeping a straight line as he traveled across the three-foot swells. He had barely traveled five minutes when he grazed the side of Jimmy’s WaveRunner, causing his to tilt on its side until he fell off.

Peter struggled to stay above water. He flailed for a bit, and then he began swimming in the direction his WaveRunner’s forward momentum would’ve taken it. With the aid of the waves, he crashed hard into the WaveRunner, cracking his forearm on the stern platform. Pain shot through his body, but he quickly shook it off. He was relieved that he had been able to find it so quickly, and was elated at locating Jimmy’s watercraft.

He fought the waves to climb back onto his WaveRunner. He slowly turned and steadily pushed the throttle to head back in the direction that he came. Excited that he’d made contact with Jimmy’s WaveRunner, albeit the hard way, Peter fought the elements to locate it. Minutes later, he came upon the WaveRunner rocking back and forth in the waves.

He tried yelling again but was unable to hear himself. His throat felt as if someone had rammed a twig into his lungs only to repeatedly jerk it out with a sadistic twist.

He had to make a decision, so Peter internally processed what he knew. Jimmy has to be close by, right? I mean, how far could he drift from the WaveRunner?

He was straddling his own WaveRunner while bending over to hold Jimmy’s handlebar. The waves continued to roll past him, causing him to lose his grip at times. Peter realized this was unsustainable, so he dropped into the water and got a firm grip on the grab handles affixed to the back of the seating area. His arms were stretched from time to time, but he was able to hold them together.

Peter thought by allowing his machine to idle, it put out sufficient noise for Jimmy to follow if he heard it. Also, the two WaveRunners, together with his outstretched arms, made a larger footprint on the water compared to him sitting atop his watercraft. With a little luck, they’d collide with one another just as Peter had unexpectedly come across Jimmy’s WaveRunner.

Peter tightened his grip, closed his eyes, and prayed.

The first thing Jimmy did was kick his shoes off. It was infinitely easier to tread water and swim without any shoes.

The shock of suddenly being thrown from his WaveRunner with little hope of finding it in the dark caused his survival instincts to kick in. He was an excellent swimmer and considered swimming to shore. Even if he used the waves from the hurricane-force winds, he could find his way to some part of Blackwater Sound to wait until daylight.

He continued to tread water, hoping the WaveRunner would somehow float back toward him. He knew it was a long shot, but treading water was something he’d practiced since he was old enough to walk. In calm waters, Jimmy had learned to float on his back, allowing the natural buoyancy of his body to do the work. The only tension he’d have to exert in calm waters was holding his head above the waterline.

Rough water floating was more dangerous. Jimmy routinely practiced lying facedown in the water, allowing his body to float. That was how he’d taught his body to hold air in his lungs for more than ten minutes. For years, he’d learned to float this way, stretching his need for air until the last minute, when he’d lift his head above water long enough to take a deep breath.

He’d exhale underwater as necessary and eventually learned he could use this technique to float for an hour, only coming up half a dozen times during that period of time. Rough water front floating , as it was called, was a means to survive in the open water without any form of floatation device.

Jimmy didn’t know how long he’d waited for his WaveRunner to miraculously find him, but he eventually gave up on the notion. At last count, he’d come up for air twelve times from front floating. He might have been at it for two hours, more or less. He wasn’t sure, but he’d made up his mind it was time to try something different.

He decided to swim to shore. Any shore. Whichever way the current and the hurricane-generated waves would take him. So he began swimming.

At first, he tried the traditional long crawl method of swimming. He stretched his body flat and horizontal atop the water and took long, consistent strokes with his arms to propel him forward. Despite the assistance from the waves, he quickly began to tire. His body was spent from the mental and physical trauma it had been through.

Jimmy treaded water for a while, and then he started swimming again, this time using the breaststroke. Swimming like a frog, as he used to say as a kid, he used a combination of leg kicks and outward arm strokes to propel himself forward. He focused on timing his strokes with riding the crest of a wave. He eventually found a rhythm that allowed him to pick up speed without exerting extraordinary effort.

Jimmy was beginning to make progress although he was not sure where he was headed. He didn’t care as long as he found something to hold onto. His limbs were tiring. His muscles were screaming. His lungs were beginning to burn. And his bloody, swollen face was becoming numb.

Then the winds picked up again. A roaring sound filled his ears that was so loud, he stopped swimming and turned in all directions, believing a large vessel was headed toward him. He began to tread water in part to ease the soreness that had come over his shoulders, and to confirm he wasn’t in the path of a boat.

After looking in all directions and twisting his body to confirm he was safe, he became slightly disoriented. He sensed that the wind had shifted, but he had no point of reference to confirm it. He’d been through many hurricanes in his life. Rarely did they stay in one place, hovering over land or sea as it pounded everything around its eye. Jimmy expected the storm was on the move, which meant he might have entered it at one quadrant, but the passage of time had placed him another.