The air was dark with more than storm now: black sky; black water all around. Even the waves’ foam was dark. His world had shrunk to each battering of water, tilting his body frantically each time the canoe was shoved onto its side, brief gulps of air in between the world of water.
It took minutes, perhaps, to realise that although the wind still snarled and the foam still whipped across his skin, the canoe was hardly moving. It had lodged somehow, leaning to the right.
His body knew it before his mind had grasped it. Land! They had come aground, somehow, somewhere …
He reached out a hand into the darkness and felt water rip and tear, still too deep for his fingers to find sand.
He stood uncertainly, then lowered one leg over the side of the canoe. Sand sucked and wriggled under his foot, stirred by the force of waves.
Which way was land, and which was the open sea? He risked pulling the canoe back towards the ocean. But every moment he stayed here he risked being slammed by another larger wave. The storm had dumped him here. It could tear him away too.
He reached his other leg down, holding onto the edge of the canoe. He took one step, then almost unconsciously pulled against the ocean’s tug. If the sea wanted him that way, he would go this …
He dragged the canoe with him. The water swirled around his thighs, his knees and finally his ankles.
He had no strength, no sight, no breath. It didn’t matter. He kept on going anyway.
Another step. Another and another, digging his feet into wet sand. At last the only water came from the sky, not the sea. He could hear the crash of waves and the growl and swirl of the currents behind him. But wherever he was, he was beyond it now.
He sank down onto the wet sand, then roused himself, and forced himself to scrabble into the canoe again. Vaguely he thought that it was probably high tide now, but he could easily have lost track of time. The tide might still rise higher, or the storm might bring even larger waves. It was wet and cramped in the canoe, but if the waves were to find him again he was safer here.
His foot touched something. Something wet and furry, that shivered.
The rubbish dog.
The rubbish dog was still in the canoe. He reached blindly into the darkness. The water bladders were still there too, held fast by their cords, just like the rubbish dog and his spear.
He still had food then, a rubbish dog. Fresh water. He had weapons too.
He let his eyes close, though the darkness behind his lids was no greater than the night and storm. Suddenly he slept, as though a war axe had bashed him on his head.