Water's all gone now.
Not the ocean water, that’s everywhere.
I mean the drinking water. Right now I’m pulling an F-minus in this class. Actually, I’m not sure if they even give out a minus after the F. How can you get worse than failing?
Anyhow, I used to think that being real thirsty would be about the same as being real hungry, but I was wrong about that.
Hunger's like a busted lip–it's always there, but I only notice when it gets in the way or if I pay it special attention. I can keep going about my day, do what has to get done, and sometimes forget about it altogether.
I never minded hunger that much. Probably because it’s always been there–a big brother pushing me around to make me tougher.
But if hunger feels like a busted lip then thirst is more like my lips got tore clean off.
No forgetting, no pretending. I feel it with every move, every breath. I can't do things the regular way anymore–not walk across the boat, tie a knot, or haul a line.
Even now, I’m just laying here under the shade of the bimini trying to fall asleep. But every time I drift off, I dream about how things were before when there was something to drink and then I wake up just as helpless and sad and plain old mad.
So yeah, that's what being thirsty is like.
Which made the misty rain that much worse when it came again this morning. It was everywhere, swirling right past my face and landing in the ocean, where it immediately turned to something I couldn’t drink.
All those terrible, sad, and mad thoughts were going through my head and in the middle of it all I saw Mrs. Harrison. Green dress. Dark curls. Sharp eyes. I wondered if she was teaching class right then. Did she wonder what happened to me? Was the class talking about it? Praying?
“This quiz is not a punishment,” I remembered her saying once. “It’s a chance to show off what you’ve learned.”
But what had I learned?
I knew there was good, drinkable water all around me in the air. And I had to figure out a way to get as much of that water as possible into my mouth before it hit the ocean.
But the water was all too little to pool up. I needed something to bring it together. Some sort of sponge. But I didn’t have a sponge.
So right then and there I invented one.
And by that I mean I took off my shirt. For my first assignment in survival school, I came up with a dirty, smelly old tank top.
Not exactly rocket science, but the shirt had soaked up a bit of water before. Next time the misty rain comes, I’m going to wipe down every surface of the boat and see if I can collect enough mist for a whole swallow.
An excellent hypothesis, I imagined Mrs. Harrison saying. I look forward to seeing the results of your experiment.
Me too, I thought. Although I’d rather see an island.
Everybody always says if you get lost out of Cedar Key, you might show up in Cuba in a couple of weeks, maybe even still alive. But now it’s been nine or ten days and I haven’t seen any cigar factories on the horizon.
Just the occasional patch of seaweed floating by.
And water.
Lots and lots of water.