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He grabbed one of the ropes around the outside of the raft. The bulk of the craft should stay upright. If he could just hold...
Another wave hit, a massive breaker of surging foam. No man could hold against such force.
And then there was nothing. Only the open, smashing sea. The GPS was in the life raft. Chances of being found now? Zip.
It was no use swimming. There was no use doing anything but hope his lifejacket wouldn’t be torn from him. He could only hope he could still keep on breathing. Hope... Hope...
There was nothing but hope. He was fighting to breathe. He was fighting to live.
There was no help. There was nothing but the endless sea.
* * *
She had to round the headland to get to the cave. It meant putting her head down and pulling almost directly into the wind. She had no idea how she was doing it, but the trolley was moving.
Tourists came to this place in summer, beaching their kayaks and exploring. The cliff path had therefore been trodden almost flat. It was possible, and she had terror driving her on. ‘This is mad,’ she muttered, but her words were lost in the gale.
She was at the point where the path veered away from the headland and turned towards the safety of the cave. Five more steps. Four...
She reached the turn and glanced down towards the beach, beyond the headland where the storm was at its worst. And stopped.
Was that a figure in the water, just beyond the shallows? A body? A crimson lifejacket?
She was surely imagining things, but, dear God, if she wasn’t...
Triage. Her medical training kicked in. Get the provisions safe, she told herself. She was no use to herself or anyone else without dry gear.
She had to haul the trolley upwards for the last few yards but she hardly noticed. In seconds she’d shoved the trolley deep inside the cave. At least the cave was in the lee of the storm, and so was the beach below.
It was wild enough even on the safe side of the island.
‘Stay,’ she told Heinz, and Heinz stuck his head out from the plastic bags and promptly buried himself again. Stay? He was in total agreement. It was dry and safe in the cave but outside the scream of wind and ocean was terrifying.
She had to face it. She wasn’t sure what she’d seen was...someone, but she had to find out.
The path down to the beach was steep but manageable. Running along the beach on the lee side of the island was almost easy as well. Thankfully the tide was out so she was running on wet sand.
She could do this.
And then she rounded the headland and the force of the storm hit head on.
She could hardly see. Wind and sand were blasting her face, blinding her.
Was it all her imagination? Was she risking herself for a bit of floating debris? The tide was coming in—fast.
She’d come this far. There were rocks at the water’s edge. She was pushing her way along the rocks, frantically searching, trying to see out into the waves. Where...?
* * *
He was falling and falling and falling. He had no idea how long he’d been in the water, how far he’d drifted, how desperate his position was. All he knew was that every few seconds he had to find the will to breathe. It was as easy and as impossible as that.
His body was no longer his own. The sea was doing what it willed. Waves were crashing over and around him. The chance to breathe often stretched to twenty, even thirty seconds.
He could think of nothing but breathing.
But then something sharp was crashing against his leg. And then his shoulder. Something hard, immoveable...
Solid. Rocks?
The water washed out and for a blessed moment he felt himself free of the water.
Another wave and it must have been twenty seconds before he could breathe. Whatever he was lying on seemed to be holding him down.
Another wash of water and he was free, hurled away from the sharpness, tossed high.
Onto sand?
He was barely conscious but he got it. His face was buried in sand.
Until the next wave.
Somehow he lifted his head. Sand. Rocks. Cliff.
The water came again but he was ready for it. He dug down, clung like a limpet.
The wave swept out again and somehow miraculously he stayed.
He couldn’t resist the water’s force again, though. He had to crawl out of the reach of the waves’ power. Somehow...somehow... The world was an aching, hurting blur. The sand was the only thing he could cling to.
He clung and clung.
And through it all was the mantra. Make Jake safe. Dear God, make Jake be okay.
Another wave. Somehow he managed to claw himself higher, but at what cost? The pain in his leg...in his head...
He could close his eyes, he thought. Just for a moment.
If Jake was safe he could close his eyes and forget.
* * *
And then she found it. Him.
Dear God, this was no detritus washed up in the storm. This was a dark-haired, strongly built man, wearing yachting gear and a lifejacket.
He was face down in the sand. He’d lost a shoe. His pants were ripped. Lifeless?
As she reached him she could see a thin line of blood seeping down his face. Fresh blood. He’d been alive when he’d been washed up.
His hands were sprawled out on the sand. She knelt and touched one and flinched with the cold. His skin was white and clammy—how long had he been in the water?
She touched his neck.
A pulse! Alive!
She hauled him over—no mean feat by itself—so he lay on his side rather than face down. She was frantically trying to clear sand from mouth and nostrils. She had her ear against his mouth.
He was breathing. She could hear it. She unclipped his lifejacket and she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest.
There was so much sand. His face was impossibly caked. Wiping was never going to get rid of that sand.
He’d be sucking it into his lungs.
She hauled off her raincoat and headed into the waves, stooping to scoop water into the plastic. That was a risk by itself because the waves were fierce. She backed up fast, up the beach to where he lay, then placed her back to the wind and oozed the water carefully around his face. She was trying to rid him of the caked sand. How much had he already breathed?
Why was he unconscious? That hit on the head? Near drowning? With his mouth clear, she put her mouth against his and breathed for him. It wouldn’t hurt to help him, to get more oxygen in, to keep that raspy breathing going.
His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, more surely now that she was breathing with him.
She kept on breathing while the sleet slashed from all sides, while the wind howled and while wet sand cut into her face and hands, every part of her that was exposed.
What to do? The tide was coming in. In an hour, probably less, this beach would be under water.
She thought of the trolley, but to pull it on a sandy beach was impossible. This man must be six foot three or four and strongly built. She was five foot six and no wimp, but she was no match for this guy’s size.
How to move him? She couldn’t.
‘Please,’ she pleaded out loud, and she didn’t even know what she was pleading for.
But as if he’d heard, his body shifted. He opened his eyes and stared up at her.
Deep, grey eyes. Wounded eyes. She’d seen pain before and this man had it in spades.
‘You’re safe,’ she said, keeping her voice low and calm. Nurse reassuring patient. Nurse telling lies? ‘You’re okay. Relax.’
‘Jake...’ he muttered.
‘Is that your name?’
‘No, Ben. But Jake...’
‘I’m Mary and we can worry about Jake when we’re off the beach,’ she said, still in the reassuring tone she’d honed with years of district nursing. ‘I’m here to help. Ben, the tide’s coming in and we need to move. Can you wiggle your toes?’
She could see him think about it. Concentrate.
His feet moved. Praise be. She wasn’t coping with paraplegia—or worse.
She should be factoring in risks. She should have him on a rigid board with a neck brace in case of spinal injury.
There wasn’t time. Survival meant they had to move.
‘Now your legs,’ she said, and one leg moved. The other shifted a little and then didn’t. She could see pain wash over his face.
‘That’s great,’ she said, even though it wasn’t. ‘We have one good leg and one that’s sore. Now fingers and arms.’
‘I can’t feel ’em.’
‘That’s because you’re cold. Try.’
He tried and they moved.
‘Good. Take a breather now. We have a little time.’ Like five minutes. Waves were already reaching his feet.
He had a slash across his face. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze but it looked like it had bled profusely.
Head injury. He needed X-rays. If he had intracranial bleeding...
Don’t even go there.
Priorities. She had a patient with an injured leg and blood loss and shock. The tide was coming in. There was time for nothing but getting him off the beach.
The sand and sleet were slapping her face, making her gasp. She was having trouble breathing herself.
Think.
Injured leg. She had no time—or sight—to assess it. The slashing sand was blinding.
Splint.
Walking-stick.
She made to rise but his hand came out and caught her. He held her arm, with surprising strength.
‘Don’t leave me.’ It was a gasp.
She understood. She looked at the ripped lifejacket and then she looked out at the mountainous sea.
This guy must be one of the yachties they’d been talking about on the radio this morning. A yacht race—the Ultraswift Round the World Challenge—had been caught unprepared. The cyclone warning had had the fleet running for cover to Auckland but the storm had veered unexpectedly, catching them in its midst.
At dawn the broadcasters had already been talking about capsizes and deaths. Heroic rescues. Tragedy.
Now the storm had turned towards her island. It must have swept Ben before it. He’d somehow been swept onto Hideaway, but to safety?
Would this be as bad as the storm got, or would the cyclone hit them square on? With no radio contact she had to assume the worst.
She had to get him off this beach.
‘I’m not leaving you,’ she said, and heaven only knew the effort it cost to keep the panic from her voice. ‘I’m walking up the beach to find you a walking-stick. Then I’m coming back to help you to safety. I know you can’t see me clearly right now but I’m five feet six inches tall and even though I play roller derby like a champion, I can’t carry you. You need a stick.’
