Water surged and bubbled about her. The dog fought and found herself rising. Her head broke into sunlight and she gulped air. She’d never swum before, but instinctively her legs began to move the right way, through the water, over to the shore.
She struggled to keep her head above water, panting, spluttering as the waves splashed her nose. At last she felt mud under her paws. She fought her way through the last of the water, the mud sucking at her. She finally found firm ground on a ball of mangrove root. She shook herself dry, then looked for Bony Boy and the canoe.
The canoe was floating down the coast, out past the place where it had overturned. Bony Boy lay in the mud. He didn’t move, but she thought he was alive.
She was glad. In this world of strange smells he at least was familiar. But she needed water. Her paws trembled with weakness. Her throat and mouth hurt.
Water!
She lifted her nose. Yes, there was its scent again. She bounded out across the mangroves, pushing her body with the last of her strength, too fast for her paws to sink into the mud; too fast also, she hoped, for the crocodile she could smell somewhere not too far away to grab her.
The mud ended in a broken cliff, steps and stairs of crumbling rock. It was steep, but not too steep for a sure-footed dog to find a way. She began to climb, letting her nose lead her to the water.