Part 2 – Chapter 24

The moonlight shone from the white crests of the waves as they threatened to swamp the curly headed man as he tried to forge his way through the water. The man with no name swam doggedly, tiredly, unsure why he was swimming and unaware of where he was swimming to. All he knew for sure was that he'd been told to swim until he could swim no more and that command seemed more important than life itself.

The salt-water bit at the wounds on his neck and right arm although they had long since stopped bleeding. The cold of the ocean had seen to that and Starsky's body itself was becoming increasingly cold as he forced his way through wave after wave. His teeth chattered in his head and violent shudders ran through his body as the cold leached the warmth from his very bones. When he'd set off on his swim to nowhere, the sea had been fairly calm in the shelter of the cove, the waves playful and small, lapping gently at his body and patting his face like a playful kitten. But as he cleared the headlands on either side of the beach, the waves increased in size. Now he fought to keep his head above the water, but his arms were beginning to feel like lead and he could no longer use the strong, smooth front crawl stroke to propel himself along.

Always a strong swimmer, his body had at first cut through the water like a hot knife through butter. He was an elegant swimmer, courageous and capable in the water. Mindless of his destination as he was, he'd still taken pride in each stroke, his arms and flashing feet powering him through the waves as he settled into a steady rhythm of two strokes and then a breath. His previous injuries however, put paid to him keeping that progress up for very long. His cracked ribs started to pierce his side with knife edged pains and his recent loss of blood caused him to tire fast. He'd only just come out of the hospital. He should have been resting in the quiet and comfort of a bedroom, but instead, he was swimming out into the ocean as though his life depended on it.

The only light out amongst the waves came from the full moon shining overhead and the twinkle of stars. Rolling over onto his back to take a breath and ease his cracking arm muscles, Starsky stared up at the huge sky above him, his body buffeted by the waves and his face wetted by the spray crashing over him. The stars in all their myriad beauty shone down on him, twinkling in the clear night air. He blew the residue of the spray from his lips and took another breath. The man in the moon smiled down, mocking him. At least the man in the moon had a name. The man in the sea had no such luxury. Instead he had an aching void where his memories had been, erased by the simple commands of one Edgar Fisher. The void and the emptiness drove him on, the only true memory that he had left to him being those words echoing around his empty head. "Swim and don't stop swimming". The sound of Fisher's voice sounded loud in his head still and any thought of disobeying was unconscionable. Edgar had told him to obey. He'd let the man down once and this was his punishment. He wouldn't let him down a second time.

With a groan, he turned back onto his belly and tried to swim again, but his injured side didn't permit his preferred easy crawl stroke any more. Each movement of his arm over his head caused a pain so severe that it took his breath away and so with dogged determination to carry out Fisher's commands, Starsky started a slow and laboured breastroke, striving to keep his head out of the water long enough to take a breath when his lungs burned from lack of oxygen.

The waves continued to mount. Although from the deck of a ship, or even from the safety of a rowing boat they would seem puny and small, to the curly haired, injured man in the water, each seemed to be the size of Mount Everest, a mountain to be attacked head on, to climb, to crest and to float down the opposite side. As each wave drove at him, however, his strength failed so that after another half an hour of struggling though the waves, his arms and legs refused to obey the signals from his brain any more. While the spirit was strong, his damaged body was too weak and Starsky's breath rasped in his throat as he heaved his head clear of the water to gasp for another breath. The oncoming wave caught him unawares and flooded his mouth. He gagged, choked and coughed trying to clear his lungs of the water and another wave hit him on the side of the head.

Crying out in frustration, the brunet rolled over onto his back again, desperate to find some comfort in the freezing watery wilderness. Above him the cold white light shone down on him and highlighted the foamy tops of the white horses that threatened to swamp him. He needed to rest. He needed to allow his body time to recover from the constant movement and struggle. He needed to be warm and sleep. He needed to be home.

Where was home? Did he have a home? For a moment, the curly haired wanderer allowed himself to try to think about that question. Who was he? Did he have a name? He must have a name, he couldn't get through life without one. The emptiness in his head mocked him and he concentrated harder on that one question. What was his name? A pain arced across his forehead, so sudden and powerful that he tried to avoid it and in his haste, he ducked his head down to his chest, his nose buried in the cold water. Gasping he righted himself and his left hand went to his head, massaging his brow and cradling the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. 'Noooooooo' he yelled into the darkness. 'Fuck, noooo.'

Shit...hurts. Hurts...God it hurts!

Muffling a forlorn sob, the brunet trod water for a while. He'd never felt so alone in all his life. Not only was there not a soul around, but he had no thoughts of people in his head. It was as though he was the only person left alive in the world and unbidden the words of a song sprung into his head. 'The Only Living Boy in New York'. Where had that come from? How come he could remember that and nothing else? Who the hell was he? Struggling to remain afloat, Starsky's arms flailed at the water around him and his legs kicked automatically as his survival instincts took over from his conscious thoughts.

The shore had long since disappeared and now he was alone in the middle of an inky blue, cold and wet world. The water sapped the life from his body and felt like a vice around his chest, clamping him close and stopping him from breathing properly. The ache in his side was dulled by the cold of the water and even the pain from the cut on his arm had abated somewhat. Looking around him, Starsky tried to make out where land was, and where he should be heading. His instructions, from wherever they came, said to swim out to sea, but he couldn't decide which way he should be swimming now. The waves obscured his view and he couldn't heave himself out of the water far enough to get a good look around him.

He rested for a little while longer. It would be so easy to give in. it would be wonderful to stop struggling and go to sleep. Idly, he wondered what drowning would be like. He'd heard that it was a peaceful way to go and yet out here, alone in the cold and wet, it didn't seem very peaceful. It seemed hellish and the water constantly clogging the back of his throat gave him a taste of what it would be like when finally his exhausted muscles could take it no more and allowed his body to dip for a final time below the surface. Try as he might to rest, though, before long his programming kicked in again and he rolled back onto his belly, his arms moving leadenly though the water.

Unbeknown to Starsky, he was swimming round in circles and the tide, that had been ebbing when he walked into the surf was now turning and floating him inexorably down the coast, south and back towards land. Kicking his heavy legs once more, the brunet started to swim again but had only gone a few yards before exhaustion overtook him. In frustration he yelled out again at the sea, the moon and the stars.

'Let me go. For Gods sake let me go!'

The words were ripped from his mouth and flung away by the breeze playing over the waves. Starsky's legs stopped their kicking for a moment and his head disappeared below the surface. Gasping he flailed his arms and brought himself to the surface, shaking his head wearily as his chocolate coloured curls clung wetly to his forehead and the surplus water coursed down his face. The water gurgled sickeningly in his ears and once again, his body threatened to dip below the surface.

Tired.

So very tired.

So weary he wanted to give up and embrace the cold wetness one final time. The conditioning imposed on his mind, however refused to allow him to give up. Just once more cruel trick Edgar Fisher had imposed on him and deep down Starsky knew that he would fight to the very end of his life. He allowed himself to float on his back, the waves rocking him and slapping at his body. His skin had been wet so long that it was rough as sandpaper, his fingertips wrinkled and devoid of any sensation.

Supersensitive and yet unresponsive.

Slowly but surely his body was shutting down from the cold and weariness overtook him.

Starsky allowed his eyes to drift closed. If he tried hard enough he could blot out the cold. It was an inconvenience now, more than a pain across his chest. His core temperature was lowering to meet the ambient temperature of the ocean around him. With the cessation of shivering came a wonderful period of warmth, despite the fact the Starsky knew that he should feel chilled to the bone. With a sigh, he allowed himself to be carried away on the feelings of comfort, his lithe, muscular body sinking slowly so that only his face showed above the water, pale and pasty and ghostly white.

A final thought passed through Starsky's mind as he felt the sea begin to suck him below the surface. He should have someone he should be saying goodbye to, but he couldn't remember. He felt an overwhelming feeling of sadness that no-one would mark his passing and no-one would mourn for him.

Maybe this was for the best.

Maybe he would be one less useless mouth to feed in the world.

With a last conscious breath, the brunet allowed himself to sink below the waves and opened his eyes to watch the moon wavering through the water and getting smaller and more distant as he plunged down into the depths.

Enough.

Too many struggles.

Goodbye.

Darkness overcame the curly haired man and he held it to him, feeling the start of the final burn on his lungs. Despite yearning for the hurting to stop, his body automatically kicked upwards one last time and with a cry of rage, his head broke the surface. Opening his mouth to take a final huge breath, Starsky suddenly felt something grab a hold of his sodden collar and pull him upwards. His body felt as though he were being pulled up to heaven and his waterlogged lungs gave a final gurgle before he blacked out.

On board the small boat, Juanita and Miguel Cortez hauled the limp and bedraggled body of the man over the gunwale and dropped him gently into the bows. As Miguel rolled him onto his back, the young woman put her head on the strangers chest and listened. The lungs gurgled beneath her ear and she could find no sign of breathing and with a care born of desperation she shuffled around until she was knelt by the curly haired man's side and leaned over. Gently but firmly she pinched his nose, tilted his head back and sealed her lips over his cold ones, breathing air into his waterlogged chest. She raised her head, took a breath and repeated the manoeuvre, watching the rise and fall of the man's chest.

Again, she breathed into his mouth, his lips frigid against hers, but as she rose again, she saw an almost imperceptible twitch of his hand and she looked down into his face.

Starsky felt soft lips cover his and for a moment wondered if all angels kissed their new recruits at the pearly gates. His felt water in the back of his throat and gagged on the salty taste, the splutter turning into a full blown coughing episode. The brunet felt hands roll him over onto his side and he spat sea water out onto the wooden boards of the bottom of the boat. He wretched until he had nothing else to purge from his system and finally, with a rasping groan, he collapsed back onto his back, panting.

'Senior?'

'Senior?'

Starsky's eyebrows drew together in concentration. Not English! His numbed mind fumbled for the right words. '¿Habla Inglés?' he managed to gasp

The young woman cradled his head in her lap and her older brother knelt in the bottom of the boat by his side. '¿De dónde eres?' she said softly, caressing his salt laden curls with slim fingers.

'Soy de...de los... Estados Unidos' the injured man muttered. '¡Es...una em...emergencia! Necesito un mmmédico.' Weakly Starsky struggled to sit up his conditioning still ringing in his ears. 'Lemme go….should swim….need t'swim' he mumbled.

The woman looked up at her brother and rattled a string of Mexican off before turning her attention back to the handsome bedraggled man and pushing him easily back down onto her lap. 'Me llamo Juanita. Rest...you are safe now. ¿Cómo te llamas?'

Starsky tried to smile back up at her. 'Me llamo...me...' as he tried to think about his name, a flare of agony shot through his head and he cried out, arching back from the wooden boards at the bottom of the boat. The pain, added to the exhaustion from his titanic swim was enough to plunge Starsky into unconsciousness and as his eyes slid closed and he lay back with a groan, Juanita's brother took a hold of the oars and pulled for shore.