Castaways

Chapter Two

He felt a gentle rocking, back and forth, back and forth, and he wondered if he were two years old again, being rocked to sleep in his mother's arms. But the arms that embraced him weren't warm and soft and comforting. They were cold, wet, and dark. He tried to open his eyes to see why he was being lulled to sleep by an unknown force but he felt himself slipping away as something up above—a seagull perhaps?—began to croon a lovely lullaby and he sunk out of the frigid, deathlike hands that rocked him gently and into the never-ending abyss of darkness calling his name, sleep, sweet sleep.

"I'm hungry." Chet had stated this simple truth seven times in the last minute, nearly fifty times since Frank had set the plump boy's cell phone out to dry nearly an hour ago.

"We know," Biff sighed, glancing around. The boys had lazily drifted along with the waves. They had no bearing on their location and although they had tried to start the boat several times, they were out of gas—too bad the extra fuel had been lost in the storm as well, Frank had observed nearly half an hour ago.

Biff squinted, staring at a point on the horizon, rubbed his eyes, and stared again. It wasn't a mirage—there was land! For a moment he couldn't say anything in his excitement and he opened his mouth and closed it several times without making sound, accomplishing only the feat of looking like an over-sized guppy.

Frank and Chet stared dumbly at his antics. Chet groaned. "I knew hunger would get to us eventually. I just thought I'd be the first to lose my mind." He paled. "You don't think he's going to try to eat us, do you?" he asked Frank, his eyes wide.

Biff regained his speech and smacked Chet upside his head. "No, dipstick," he crowed, grinning from ear to ear. "It's not that—there's land over there!"

In a rush of excitement, Frank and Chet turned around and saw the small spot of green coming up on their left. "Come on," Frank shouted. "We've got to find way to get this boat to the island. Hopefully it's inhabited."

"Knowing our luck, it won't be," Chet grimaced.

Biff shook his head. "No, knowing his luck," he said, jabbing a thumb in Frank's direction, "it will be inhabited, but by a crazy, psychotic, violent hermit." He said this with total seriousness, for the Hardys had encountered several hermits living on islands all by themselves during their adventures solving mysteries, and most of the time, those hermits tended to be rather violent.

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "There were some pretty nutty ones. I remember when we were over near Rockaway and we met that old sailor hermit." He laughed. "I remember, Joe said—" he broke off, grief overcoming his handsome features as he completely changed the subject. "So I'm going to get some rope and we'll tie it to the front of the boat. We'll take turns with one person in front swimming and pulling and another at the back pushing the boat. That way, we'll be able to get the boat to shore."

It seemed like agonizingly grueling work and Chet wasn't afraid to tell Frank so. Frank merely waved him aside with a flick of his wrist and said with sadness in his voice, "Joe and I have done it by ourselves before. With three of us, it should be a breeze."

It wasn't a breeze, but it wasn't overly-difficult, either. By alternating out and taking turns pushing, pulling, and resting in the boat, the boys—with a little help from the wind that was pushing the waves toward the island, helping speed up the process, perhaps as a peace offering for being so disagreeable before—were able to get the boat fifty feet from the sandy beach in a little less than two hours. Frank turned off the motor and tied the boat to a convenient rock jutting out from the surf—almost too convenient but he was too tired to question their good fortune. The boys then swam the last fifty feet and collapsed on the beach, wet, hungry, thirsty, and absolutely exhausted. They dragged themselves up the beach for a few more yards, not wanting to be swept back out to sea by the tides, then lost consciousness, glad to be released from the sadness, worry, hunger, thirst, pain, and guilt, at least for a little while.

He felt something warm on his back and neck, drawing him slowly back to consciousness. It caressed his shoulders, arms, and neck, gently bringing him around. It kissed his cheek, urging him, insisting that he must completely resurface from the never-ending nightmare of blackness.

But who was this unknown suitor, this beautiful beacon of hope as he tried to wake up? Was she really an angel of mercy or was she a siren waiting only to lift his hopes then drag him back to the depths of the sea? The warmth spread as he gained awareness and his eyes fluttered open.

As his foggy head began to clear, things began to make a bit more sense. He was lying on his stomach on a sandy beach, his face pressed into the golden sand. His shirt and life jacket were still on, but torn, and the arms rocking him earlier had been the waves lapping around him and carrying him to shore. The warmth that had brought him around was the heat from the sun. For a while he lay there, trying to gather up the strength just to roll over. Finally he lurched with all his strength to his left and somehow ended up on his back, staring up at the lovely sun that had probably saved his life, warming him and waking him up. A few gulls floated lazily in the now-clear blue sky.

What had happened? At first he couldn't remember; couldn't remember anything. He panicked, but then through his exhaustion recalled everything he needed to know. He was Joe Hardy, first and foremost. He had been on the Sleuth with Frank, Chet, and Biff. A big storm had rolled in seemingly out of nowhere and he had jumped up front to help his brother. He realized that when he had gotten into the front of the boat, he had forgotten to strap back in. When the visibility was the worst—the rain was so thick and the sky so dark that one could see nothing unless it was right in front of their face—and the thunder and crashing of waves was so loud, a huge wave had crashed over the boat.

Joe had been sitting there, hoping that the storm would just go away so they could have some fun when he felt the wave smash into him and drag him toward the open sea. He had twisted, tried to grab onto something, anything. His fingers had brushed against the belt he should have had over his lap, then the edge of the boat. All the while he had been yelling at the top of his lungs but no one could hear or see him because of the storm—it was as if he were all alone. He hadn't been able to get a grip on anything and as he was screaming a great bit of seawater had splashed into his open mouth and he had choked. He had been carried along with the wave, washed out of the boat. Since everything was so dark and the waves so big, he hadn't been able to spot the boat at all. He had started swimming in what he thought was the direction of the craft, all the while praying that he wouldn't be struck by lightning. But then another wave had crashed over him with astounding force and he had blacked out.

From what he could figure, he had probably been saved by his life jacket. The vest had kept his head above water as the storm calmed. He had probably been swimming in the wrong direction before and was probably pretty close to the island. He had been washed ashore, gained consciousness for a few moments before passing out again, and had wound up waking up once again and had stayed awake, which brought him to the present. It made sense.

He felt a cold fist of panic grip his stomach. Where was he, though? What had happened to Frank? To Biff and Chet? Had they been able to stay aboard the Sleuth or had they, too, been tossed out of the boat? Had they found him missing? Had they searched for him? Were they still looking or had they declared him dead? And if they had returned to the bay and to civilization, had they been able to contact the Coast Guard and get some people out here looking for him?

So many questions with absolutely no answers. Joe forced himself to his knees, ignoring the pounding of his head, then tottered to his feet. For a few moments he wavered there, not sure if he was going to be able to make it without falling flat on his face. He took a few tentative steps without crashing and he felt his head clear up even more. He tore off his life jacket then turned his attention to his physical state.

His shirt was torn and damp—not soaking wet, thanks to the sun—and his shorts were tattered but still served their purpose relatively well. His sandals were gone—big surprise—and he couldn't find his cell phone anywhere. That made him mad because he had just gotten that touch screen iPhone from his brother for his birthday a few weeks ago. He reminded himself that he was lucky to be alive and managed to control his emotions about material things. He had quite a few cuts and bruises but none seemed too serious. The back of his neck was getting sunburned as was the rest of the exposed skin from where he had been laying in the sun for who knows how long. He was hungry and thirsty, sore, cold, and shivering, but he was alive.

For now.

When Frank woke up, all traces of the storm had vanished. The sun was beginning to set, casting red, gold, and pink hues across the darkening sky. He pushed himself to his feet, discarded his life jacket, and went to wake up Chet and Biff. The other boys groaned and staggered to their feet as well.

"How long have we been out?" Chet asked, glancing up at the gorgeous heavens and the incredible sunset.

"I don't know, let me check my phone," Biff said sarcastically. "Oh, wait, I can't—it got washed away," he mumbled bitterly.

"Phone!" Frank gasped, then took off down the beach to where they had tied down the boat, intending to see if Chet's phone had dried out and was able to be used. When he got to the edge of the water, his frazzled eyes searched the gentle waves desperately until he found the rock that the boat had been tied to. He found the rock...but the boat was gone. "Of course," he groaned.

"The Sleuth is gone?" Biff said incredulously. "How? There's obviously no one here who could have stolen it."

"No, we were exhausted. I'm guessing when we tied the boat up, we didn't do it right. Sorry, guys—this one is my bad."

"Don't worry about the boat, dude," Chet said gently, walking to the edge of the shore to stand by Frank. He slung a pudgy arm over his friend's shoulder and smiled softly. "It wasn't that useful anyway. At least we made it."

"Well, most of us did," Frank muttered, his eyes misting over and Chet kicked himself mentally for his insensitive behavior. He felt sick to his stomach when he thought about the fact that Joe might very well be dead. He felt tears moisten his own eyes and saw that Biff was crying quietly as well. Now that they were out of peril for the time being, the weight of their loss was profound and heavy.

"What do you say we start a fire?" Frank said softly, breaking the silence. "There's no food right now—"

Chet cut him off and wiped his eyes. "No food? What else do you think I carry in my back pocket—daisies?" He reached behind him and pulled out four rather squished, waterproof baggies of dried noodles and chicken. "Brought these along, just in case. Just add water, heat it over the fire, and ta-da! Dinner!"

Biff and Frank smiled. "I will never again tease you about your eating habits," Biff said as he made a grab for one of the food packets. "Okay, that's a lie," he admitted, grinning, "but I am awfully glad you listened to your stomach today."

Twenty minutes later the boys were huddled near the fringe of trees leading into a tangled forest, a bright fire crackling and illuminating the immediate darkness around them. The boys were eating the chicken soup out of the packets, having used some water bottles Chet had managed to salvage from his large cargo side-pocket to make the food.

"What are we going to do?" Biff moaned. "We haven't seen any signs of life on the island at all. If there is a hermit here, he really, really keeps to himself.

"Chances are, this is a deserted island," Frank said. "But tomorrow we'll explore the forest area just in case. Then we can figure out how to try and get off."

"Maybe we can spell S.O.S. on the beach with branches," Chet offered helpfully.

"Or maybe a big signal fire might be more practical," Biff said.

"We'll worry about that tomorrow," Frank stated, then squeezed his eyes shut, an image of his younger brother etched into his mind.

"I bet he's fine, Frank," Biff said softly, squeezing his friend's shoulder, despite the fact that he held no hope for Joe in his voice.

"I failed him," Frank said quietly. "I promised to always watch out for him on any of our adventures—and this wasn't even supposed to be a dangerous adventure. But I wasn't watching out for him on the boat and now he's gone forever."

"It's not your fault," Chet snapped firmly. "You couldn't see or hear anything. None of us could." He paused. "If anything, it's our fault because we let him jump up there with you."

Tears rolled down Frank's ashen face. "Oh, Joe..." he moaned.

Biff stood up and motioned for Chet to hand him the pocket knife that the boy had in his back pocket. Chet handed it over and Biff grabbed a lone piece of wood from around the fire pit. He quickly carved a rough canoe shape out of the wood and fitted a small flaming stick from the fire into the makeshift boat. Frank and Chet, realizing what their friend was doing, jumped to their feet and accompanied him to the edge of the water.

"Joe was an awesome friend," he said softly. "Funny, athletic, great to have on the football team, and he cared about others." He handed the boat to Chet.

"Even though we had a few hardships in our friendship, especially after my sister's death, we were still best friends to the end. And I'm glad that things were beginning to get back to normal," the stocky boy said quietly, then handed the flaming candle-boat to Frank.

"Joe, I love you more than anything—anyone," Frank said softly, his tears almost extinguishing the fire. "I swear, I will not rest until we have located your—your body and you are at rest." He paused. "And if you are still out there somewhere, alive, I will find you, never stop looking for you. I love you so much, baby brother and I'm sorry if I let you down." With the final words, Frank set the boat in the water and the three teary-eyed friends watched as the small boat drifted off into the sea, a beacon of light in the blackness of death.

Frank turned to Biff. "Thanks, man," he said, hugging his pal. "That was a good idea, doing a memorial for Joe."

The boy shrugged. "That's what friends are for."

~Emachinescat ^..^