Burt Peel's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The planks lay in a crooked row where Burt had dragged them. Morning light showed him the water. The tide had crept up the sand overnight, and the wet line sat close to his first board now. He remembered the last wave. He remembered doing nothing while his raft floated off. Burt set his jaw. "Not twice," he said. "Not this time." He checked the slope. The planks sat low, right in the water's reach. Higher up the beach ran a long ridge of packed sand, smoothed into a low wall. Behind it the ground stayed dry. If he hauled the planks past that ridge, the tide could not touch them. Burt looked at the gap between the boards and the ridge. Thirty steps, maybe. Thirty steps his soft hands could not grip a single plank to cross. He wedged the beer bottle under a plank and pried. The board rose, then slid off the glass and dropped. Water licked the end of it now. Burt tried the cardboard next, hugging a plank through the flattened pack. It held three steps, then tore. The plank thumped down. Foam rolled over his feet. He had minutes, not hours. Then he saw it, half buried near the ridge. A coil of rope, twisted from coconut hairs, fine wires bristling off every strand. Flies lifted off it when he came close. Three of them, fat and glossy, red and pink and blue eyes shining. They buzzed around his head and settled on his soft shoulder. He ignored the bites he could not feel. Burt grabbed the rope through his cardboard. The coconut fibers held where glass and paper had failed. He looped one end around a plank and knotted it tight. Now he could drag the board without touching it. He leaned his whole soft weight back and pulled. The plank slid across the wet sand, over the ridge, onto dry ground. He worked fast. Loop, knot, drag. One plank after another, up and over the sand wall. The water chased each one but came up short against the ridge. Sweat he did not have. The flies rode along, buzzing, biting nothing that mattered. By the time the tide reached the spot where the planks had been, there was nothing left to take. Burt leaned on the ridge and looked at his boards. Six planks, safe and dry. And in his hands, the rope. The same rope he needed to tie them into a raft. He turned a plank over. Soft banana mush smeared the wood where he had gripped it, yellow drips frozen down the rough grain. Burt looked closer and his stomach sank. The coconut fibers were short lengths, twisted loose. Good enough to drag a plank once. Not nearly long enough, or strong enough, to bind six boards against the sea. "Figures," Burt said. "Saved the wood. Found the rope. Rope's junk." He flicked a fly off his ear and stared at the coil. He needed more.