Page 39 of Restoration
Together, we haul the boat in toward the shore.
It’s not too hard to begin with, but eventually we have to fight the retreating tide and then pull it over sand as the water gets shallower.
It takes every bit of strength and energy I possess, and I can see Edmund feels the same. When we’ve finally got the boat lodged far enough up on the beach for it to be safe from being pulled back into the ocean, we both collapse onto the sand, gasping and wheezing.
We don’t even bother trying to look inside the boat until we’ve recovered, cooled down, and drunk a lot of water. Then we finally climb onto the deck so we can check out what’s in it.
There’s no dead body. That’s the first thing we discover. Whoever was sailing this boat must have been washed overboard, leaving it adrift at sea. The radio and the rest of the electronics on board are all completely waterlogged and unusable. And belowdecks we find an assortment of soaking-wet clothes, blankets, towels, and toiletries. There’s a thin mattress on the bunk that we can definitely use after it dries out. And there’s a tiny galley with some canned food that hasn’t been ruined. And a couple of plates and drinking glasses. One small pot and one small pan.
And one good utility knife, which is an absolute godsend.
It takes most of the afternoon to drag everything out, wring out the water, and stretch it out so it can dry in the sun.
We’re exhausted by the time the sun starts to set. We eat a can of baked beans along with our fruit. It tastes way too salty but feels substantial.
We go to bed early. I can barely keep my eyes open, but I’m deeply worried about Edmund. He’s been quiet all afternoon and evening. Something about his presence feels heavy. Not like him at all.
We lie down on our respective towels, and I turn on my side to face him. He turns toward me too, meeting my eyes in what’s left of the light from the setting sun.
“I’m really sorry, Edmund,” I whisper.
I don’t have to explain what I’m sorry for. He knows as much as I do. He’s hurting—all the hope for rescue he’d been holding on to disappearing like the unstoppable retreat of the tide.
I can’t resist the urge any longer, so I reach out to wrap my arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.
He makes a throaty sound and holds on to me just as tightly.
We lie like that for a long time, clinging to the needy embrace like it’s all we have left.
Then finally we fall asleep together.
***
WHEN I WAKE UP THEnext morning, something is different. It takes me a minute to figure out what it is.
Edmund isn’t asleep beside me.
He never wakes up before I do. And he was so hurt last night. Wounded.
Worried, I jump up and crawl out of the shelter, gasping in surprise when the first thing I see is Edmund pounding one of our wood planks into the ground next to our improvised patio.
“What are you doing?” I ask, poised on my hands and knees and staring up at him.
“I pulled the sails off that boat. We can use one of them as that awning you were talking about. To cover the patio.”
I manage to straighten up so that I’m on my knees. I stare up at him, searching his face with an unexpected urgency.
He meets my eyes, and I understand.
I understand.
He’s lost his hope for a timely rescue, so he’s ready to invest in making our living conditions better.
And he’s starting by building us a covered patio.
***
ALL MORNING WE WORKon the patio—extending the rock surface I started and erecting the awning using the wood planks and some of the rope from the sailboat.