In one motion, I sprawled across the raft on my back, securing my ankles and left wrist beneath guidelines as the mountainous vertical wall of water dropped beneath me, its displaced downward moving mass unleashing an upward blast of air that caught the falling raft like a Frisbee—levitating it above the crashing wave, which struck the shallows in a deafening thunderclap of ocean and foam. A second later, the vinyl inflatable was blasted sideways by an unleashed avalanche of froth, the wave flipping it over, the ocean swallowing me whole.

I was bludgeoned by a river of black, gritty fluid that roared in my brain and threatened to peel the flesh from my bones as it churned me in a raging, terrifying fury that superseded breathing until seconds became minutes, and still I could not escape.

With a sizzling explosion of pain, my left shoulder was driven into the sand, existence pummeled into blackness.

Chapter 17

17

In the landscape of time, there are few locations less comfortable than that of one who waits for some person or event to arrive at some unknown moment in the future.

—ROBERT GRUDIN, American writer and philosopher

I drifted upon warm, soothing echoes of sound—until the sound clapped like thunder, stirring me awake.

I opened my eyes. My right cheek was pressed against coarse white sand that sparkled like diamond dust. Rolling over, I closed my eyes to the midday sun, my skin soaking in the warmth, my body teased back into the catnap by the cool breeze and distant rushing surf.

I jumped as water lapped over my feet and up my pant legs, dousing me awake.

I sat up, my head pounding from the concussion. The tide that had spanned a mile of beach to reach me was retreating steadily—a blue carpet rolling up to a calm ocean horizon. I turned around to gather my bearings—beach to either side—a barren stretch of desert sand behind me, the blurred horizon demanding the binoculars still dangling around my neck.

Loosening the drawstring, I realized with delight that my right hand was working, my right arm no longer numb, the paralysis gone! Rolling up my sleeve, I tested the appendage, opening and closing my fist.

That’s when I noticed the welts—a pattern of red dots that ran from my deltoid muscle down my right biceps, curving around my forearm. The marks, each the size of a quarter, were dotted dead-center with a pinprick of my blood.

I palpated the blots, wondering if something had bit me. Pushing the thought aside, I positioned the binoculars to my eyes and again scanned my surroundings.

The retreating tide was slowly feeding into an enormous wave, several hundred feet high and still climbing. My pulse raced as the dark green vertical cliff crested slowly until it collapsed in a silent explosion of froth—the clap of thunder and bone-jarring rumble reaching me seconds later.