A Nickel's
Chance
It
was about the time my calf cramped the first time that I decided to kill Jimmy
King to stay afloat.
After
she had slammed into the rock and split her bow, we had grabbed what we could
before jumping from our little sloop, the Wooden
Nickel, into the Pacific. I had snagged a canteen of water and the outdated
life-vest which could barely float itself. Jimmy, always lucky, had clapped his
hands on a spar, never letting go. Now, he draped his body across it, as if
sunbathing like those tourists we often saw in Chile. He grabbed a spar, and
because he was well-liked among the crew, and because he was puny — like a
wilted cat-tail — and because he had two twin daughters who could melt your
heart — because of all that, no one fought him for his beam. Everyone else just
bobbed along and scowled with envy.
That
had been this morning, before the carpenter went mad and drank seawater and
before Morrison stopped kicking and drowned. After seven hours treading water,
with the sun setting, it was pretty easy to forget lucky Jimmy’s twin
daughters.
One
good hit on the skull and he’d go under.
When
my leg stopped its spam, I floated over. “Jimmy,” I said, my salted throat
cracking at the word.
He
just lifted his head in acknowledgement, like a dog. No one else was watching.
“Jim,
could I take a turn?” I croaked. If he would share, I’d let him live.
He
shook his head. “Fairs fair, Paul. You could have gotten it.”
“Move,”
I said.
“Shove
off,” he growled.
My
brow furrowed. He’d had his chance. As I got a good grip on the canteen-club in
my fist, I apologized to his twin daughters.
Then
the fin bumped me from below.
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