The Steps To Success

Step Two: The Execution

Chapter Fourteen: But Don't Ask For Help

The third day of being stranded at sea with Cartman passes much the same as the two days previous. Cartman eats his snacks and complains, and I eat saltines and dehydrated meals and complain about Cartman's complaining. I spend some time working on the rope net; it actually starts to look pretty good. It's really fucking hot again and Cartman offers to rub suntan lotion on me, which I happily let him do. He makes me melt like fucking butter in his hands, and it is definitely the best part of the day, even though I'm left with another stiffy that I can't do anything about. But later, during the night, I'm laying under the tarp, trying to fall asleep, and Cartman joins me with the sleeping bag. It's unzipped and he puts it over both of us, like a blanket. I pretend that I'm asleep the whole time, not wanting to question Cartman's sudden willingness to be so close to me.

On the fourth day, Cartman runs out of snacks. I've been dreading the day this would happen, but it isn't that bad. Mostly it just gives Cartman more things to complain about. Still, now that his snacks are gone, we're running out of our food fast. At an alarming rate, in fact.

On the fifth day of being stranded in the middle of the fucking ocean, I finally figure out how we'll be able to catch some fish. I finish the rope net and deflate the safety tube so that it's just a limp piece of leather. I then tie the rope net onto the tube and connect it to an oar, which I then dip into the water. This way, as the current moves the boat, my hand-made net also moves in the water, and hopefully some fish will swim into it. I don't catch anything that day, but I'm still pretty fucking proud of myself for thinking of the idea.

The weather during the sixth day is so hot and humid that I think I'm going to die of heat stroke, and I'm not even doing anything. I pretty much beg Cartman to put some sunscreen on my back, cause I can feel it burning up, but he's catatonic, lying with his mouth open and his eyes closed. I can't really blame him. We drink a lot of our fresh water that day, and I mean a lot. That's why, when, on the seventh day, it starts raining cats and dogs, I'm actually happy about it. Cartman and I collect all the rain water we can in buckets. And to top it off, that's the day I catch my first fish in my hand-made net. Neither Cartman nor I want to eat raw fish (it's definitely not Kosher) but we have no way of starting a fire on the boat, even though we have matches and a frying pan. We end up throwing the (now) dead fish back into the ocean. We're hungry, but not that hungry. Yet.

Nothing of significance happens on the eighth day. (I know it's the eighth day because I've been keeping track in the inventory notebook.) Unless, of course, Cartman's daily rub down of sunblock counts as something of significance. Or the fact that every night now Cartman comes underneath the tarp to sleep next to me when he thinks I'm sleeping. Those two things would be significant, except that now they happen on a regular basis, like part of a routine. Plus, a lot of things that seemed like a big deal really aren't anymore. It's weird how being on the edge of life and death does that.

The ninth day passes the same, and I actually thank God that Cartman is stranded here with me, because I would have gone crazy by now if he wasn't. Literally. I would be insane from the boredom. I wouldn't say this under normal circumstances, but the fact that Cartman and I agree on pretty much nothing is actually to our advantage in this situation. During the day we spend hours just debating various topics. I sit on the side of the boat, holding my little net in the water, and Cartman sits at his perch at the front, and we talk. Well, argue is more like it, just without the yelling. I haven't caught another fish since that first one, but If I catch another one that's swimming too close to the surface, I will eat it this time. I don't care if it's raw. We're running out of supplies.

It's now the tenth day that Cartman and I have been stranded on this tiny lifeboat. And, while some things, like staying Kosher, have stopped mattering in the face of our circumstance, other things I just can't help but complain about.

"My shirt is so fucking dirty, dude," I moan, holding it up in front of myself. There's sweat stains and dirt and other shit just caked into it, and it's at the point now that I just don't want to put it back on. At all. My shorts and other clothes (boxers, ahem) aren't the cleanest, either, but at least they're not white, so they don't look as bad.

Cartman, the bastard, has a change of clothes in his backpack so he's just laughs at my complaints, saying, "Now you actually are a filthy Jew."

"Well you don't smell like a basket of roses, either," I tell him, even though I'm no better. The truth is that we both smell terrible - like sweat and body odor and just human. Too much human all over the place. I need shampoo, and soap, and fucking water that's not fucking salty that I can bathe in to clean all this dirt off. Seriously, the grime is just caked on now. The storm that happened a few days ago washed some of it away, but it just came back anyway.

"We're gonna die," I groan, like I've been groaning for the past few days, past caring that I sound like an over-dramatic bitch. "We're gonna die out here and the sea birds are gonna pick us clean."

"We're not gonna die, Kyle," Cartman says, rolling his eyes.

"What if we don't get to land soon? What if no one ever finds us? We can't stay out here forever!"

"We'll get to land and we'll get help, Jew, it's not rocket science." By now the two of us have rehashed this argument so many times that we pretty much know what the other person is going to say before they say it. It's both annoying and reassuring that Cartman is so confident in our survival. It's annoying because he has no proof that he's right, and he could very well be wrong, but it's also reassuring because, well, who doesn't need a little optimism in their life? I never knew that Cartman had such a positive attitude. (Hah, right.)

"Ten days," I moan. "We've been out here for ten days and haven't seen anyone at all. You'd think that we'd see at least a boat of some sort, delivering goods or something."

"Yeah," Cartman agrees. "Now shut the fuck up, Jew, your voice is annoying me."

"Fuck you," I tell him, but then I do actually shut up because my voice is starting to annoy me, too. We're both quiet for most of the afternoon, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I'm thinking about the future, thinking about college at Harvard next year, and silently telling myself that if I get out of this alive I won't give my mom such a hard time about me becoming a lawyer. Maybe I'll even humor her and take a few classes. The thought doesn't seem so bad now.

I have no idea what Cartman is thinking about, but it must be something important. He's staring contemplatively out at the water, his eyebrows pulled together in thought. He doesn't even notice me staring at him, which is nice, cause I'd rather look at him than at the stupid view of never-ending ocean around us.

I know we haven't been out here too long, but I'm noticing changes to Cartman's physique in interesting ways. His hair is longer, for one, and he also seems just the slightest bit... I wouldn't use the word skinnier, exactly; he's just more lean. Still big, though. He has this air of mystery around him that just won't go away, and I grudgingly admit that it's a good look on him.

Oftentimes I find myself looking at his hands, which is slightly weird. But I just can't help myself - he's like the master of massages and his hands just interest me. They're a bit of a conundrum. His hands are big, like the rest of him, but where most of Cartman's body is thick, his hands are actually quite delicate. The skin of his palms is extremely soft (from the lack of manual labor, I suppose). His fingers are long, but not too slender to look creepy, and his nails are cut short.

I look down at my own hands, which are small and get dry and cracked during the cold months, often turning an ugly pink color in the winter. By comparison, Cartman's hands are almost feminine. I sigh dejectedly, looking away from my hands and back at Cartman. It just goes to show how bored I am that I am cataloging Cartman's features. Mostly, I think I just need to keep myself busy so that I don't ask Cartman for another one of his massages.

Yes, I know that I'm pathetic.

- KB -

"Cartman," I say quietly. It's our eleventh day of being stranded together, and to say I'm bored is an understatement.

"What?" he grunts.

"Try not to finish it," I tell him, smiling slightly, with just the corners of my mouth. He raises an eyebrow at me and I start singing quietly: "I'm sailing away... Set an open course for the virgin seas..."

He always had to finish singing this song when we were kids. I haven't made him sing it for a long time. Cartman swears and looks constipated for a few moments before he says, "Fuck!" and starts singing the song as quickly as possible.

I'm smiling for real now because it's funny that Cartman still has to finish the song. I used to think it was annoying when we were kids but now I just think it's endearing.

"Fuck you, Kyle," Cartman says when he's done singing, but he's smiling, too.

- KB -

"Cartman! I got one! I caught a fish!"

It's the evening of our twelfth day at sea and I finally catch another fish with my makeshift net. Cartman comes tumbling out from under the tarp, where he was most likely trying to sleep, and rushes over to help me get the fish in the boat. It's not dead yet, just caught in the net, and I watch as Cartman lifts it out of the water, net and all, and wrestles it to the bottom of the boat, wrapping his arms around it and laying on top of it until it goes still.

"Nice one, Kyle," he tells me once the fish is dead. It's a rather large fish.

"Thanks," I say as he untangles the net and hands it back to me. He finds a knife from our dwindling supply pile and starts cutting off pieces of the fish. I don't watch, but I do eat the piece he offers me a few moments later. It tastes like fish, which isn't pleasant, but it's greasy and filling and it makes my stomach feel better instead of worse so I also eat another piece that he gives me, hoping that I won't be sick the next morning.

But even if I am, it's not like we have any choice. Cartman and I have both been rationing the food because our supplies are getting dangerously low. We're already completely out of the saltine crackers and we've already consumed three-fourths of our fresh water. Neither of us have any idea if or when we'll be found or reach land, so we've decided to be conservative.

So today both of us have only eaten one dehydrated meal each with a can of water, so it's safe to say we're both a bit hungry. We eat in comfortable silence, picking out the bones and throwing them back in the water. Thinking about the future makes my head hurt, especially thinking about our supplies. Everything is running out, including my insulin. For me, it doesn't matter if we always have food and water, because if I run out of insulin, I'm done for anyway.

Something's got to happen soon.

- KB -

"So..." Cartman asks the next day after I take my insulin. "What will happen to you if you run out of insulin?"

He doesn't look at me as he asks the question, but he says it with an air of curiosity.

"Well," I begin, in a very matter-of-fact tone, "If I don't get my insulin my blood sugar will sky rocket, which can lead to many things, including dehydration, fever, coma, and, eventually, death, among other things." I look down at my nails as I say it, trying not to let the tremor show in my voice, trying to hide how scared I am of that actually happening.

Cartman is quiet for a while. "Has it ever happened to you before?" he asks, and I shake my head no.

We're both quiet for a long time after that, just thinking, and then Cartman says, "I won't let you die." And when I look at him his eyes are serious and he's not smiling and I just nod my head because I don't know what to say.

It's weird because it seems like Cartman actually cares. It's weird because I believe him.

- KB -

I decide to change the amount of insulin I take each day, choosing to decrease the amount. I do this for a number of reasons, most importantly because if I make the doses smaller then my supply will last longer. Also, I've lost a bit of weight since we've been out here for almost two weeks. I'm used to my dosage changing - I've been going to the doctor every six months for blood tests to make sure I'm taking the correct dose for my weight and food intake - so, since I now weigh less and am eating less I figure decreasing my dose won't hurt.

Cartman has also lost a bit of weight. Nothing too drastic - we haven't been out here that long, after all - but a significant amount, nonetheless. He's actually lost a few inches around his waist. He looks good.

I, on the other hand, was scrawny and skinny even before this whole thing happened, so I probably just look plain sickly, now. My hips are bonier than ever and I can wrap my entire hand around my wrist so that my fingers overlap. And my fingers aren't even that long. It's definitely not a good thing.

- KB -

The next day, two weeks after the storm that caused this whole mess, I hear a strange sound. I'm under the tarp with Cartman, half asleep, when I hear whooshing sounds. They keep fading in and out, like they're getting closer and then moving away. I groan and roll over, throwing the sleeping bag off of my overheated body. The sun is shining brightly and I rub the sleep out of my eyes as the whooshing sounds come closer again. I roll out from under the tarp and look at the sky, my heart rate skyrocketing.

It can't be - it is really what I think it is? - my eye catches on a small thing in the distance and I yell, calling for Cartman.

"Cartman! Get up, Cartman, it's a helicopter! A helicopter!" I jump up and down, waving my arms frantically. "HEY!" I yell, and Cartman comes out to join me, yelling as well. "We're over here! OVER HERE!" We're both waving our arms like crazy people and yelling ourselves hoarse, and the helicopter comes closer before flying away again, making circles.

But they don't see us. "NO!" I yell as the helicopter starts flying away. "COME BACK! COME BACK!" My vision becomes blurry as my eyes fill with tears. "Come back," I moan, sitting down and putting my face in my hands. The tears spill over and I don't even try to stop them. It feels like my heart is breaking, like every last vestige of hope I had for rescue is being sucked out of me. Everything aches, everywhere, it's like everything all at once, and I can't stop crying.

I sound like a broken animal, my sobs turning into whining keens and harsh breaths, moans and sniffling. Cartman wraps his arms around me and I allow him to pull me into his chest. He's crying as well; I can feel his tears falling on the back of my neck. But his crying is silent, which somehow makes it even worse. We both sit and cry together for a long time, just letting it all out, and neither of us say anything. There are no words of comfort; nothing. There's nothing we can say.

We both know that any chance of being found now is pretty much non-existent. A helicopter was here, was the only form of life we've seen for two weeks, and now it's gone. What are we going to do now?

What the fuck are we going to do now?