The waiting was torturous.
The skies threatened rain, and our craft listed back and forth as the choppy waves pushed it to and fro. My mind could not settle into my book, so I imagined; I took myself on flights of fancy. On the fair isle of St. Anne's Cleft I began my journey, following my beloved characters through the woods and the village and echoing monastic halls. I witnessed a birth, a death, and a wedding, only the latter of which shall find its way into print. And when I tired of the island life, I teleported to Wisconsin--an area similar in which I now was, only a hundred and seventy-five years ago, with some of my oldest and best-loved characters.
When I again lost interest, we were no closer to being rescued.
Our supplies were running low. Due to dietary restrictions, my parents (and, presumably, my aunt and uncle) could not drink soda. So I took it upon myself to save for them the water and drank the Coca-Cola. I was on my second can. O, the horrors that ran through my mind! Diabetes and tooth decay! In my job as a tutor, I beseeched my students to abstain from carbonated beverages. I had become the very thing I had sworn to destroy!
"There's so much sugar in here that there's no hydrational value," I muttered to my mother. "I may as well not drink it."
"That's not true," said my mother. And, with a slightly-comforted spirit, I sipped my Coke again.
The boat knocked against the pier to which we were tethered. I rearranged the foam cushions that were tied to the boat, and the knocking lessened. Eventually, someone thought to tie the cushions around the pier itself rather than onto the boat, and this helped us considerably.
I opened my book of tales concerning Sherlock Holmes. None of them could hold my interest.
My sister lay nearby, using data on her cell phone. I had neglected to bring mine, reasoning that I might drop it or otherwise damage it. My sister seemed to have no such concerns. At one point, she engaged in a FaceTime chat. I was livid.
The marina at which we found ourselves was part of some sort of residence--condos, perhaps, or high-quality apartments. At any rate, there was a pool located a considerable distance from us, and at that pool there was a restroom. It was the only restroom available. Reaching it required navigating the pier, climbing a steep hill with stairs built in, and following a road for several yards, past a speed bump and a pair of dumpsters. Having been at sea for several hours at this point, taking this walk seemed profitable, even if only to stretch my legs and appreciate the solid ground.
But, as luck and Murphy's Law would have it, my sister soon came clamoring after me, disturbing my peace of mind. But at least she bore good news.
Our rescuers had arrived, and we would soon be home safe at last.
M. J. Piazza is a Jesus-loving, dog-walking country girl who just so happens to write books.