Lost Paradise (The Savages of the Blue Lagoon)

45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

The relentless sun beats down on us, turning the inside of our small boat into an oven. We sit in uneasy silence, drifting aimlessly with the engine cut to conserve what little fuel we have left. Foster huddles over Eve, his broad shoulders offering scant protection from the blistering rays that seep through the thin canopy overhead. Last night's storm still haunts us—violent winds and crashing waves that threatened to capsize us at any moment.

I glance at our dwindling supplies, a sinking feeling settling in my gut. "We've got maybe two days' worth of fresh drinking water left," I mutter, voicing the grim reality that hangs over us like a dark cloud.

Byron, ever the pragmatic navigator, studies the map with furrowed brows. "I think we're drifting towards a shipping lane. There's a chance we might get spotted."

I nod, my throat dry as I struggle to swallow. "Let's hope they see us before we're too weak to signal."

Eve shifts uncomfortably beside me, her burnt cheeks and blistered fingers a stark reminder of the sun's ferocity. Foster stays close to her, murmuring words of comfort that feel hollow against the uncertainty of our situation.

"Any more coconut water?" Foster's voice is low, tinged with worry.

I shake my head, unable to meet his gaze. "Not much. Maybe enough for another day or so."

“Leave it for Eve,” I say, and we all look at her in silent mutual agreement.

“No ration it between all of us,” she mutters quietly.

“You need it more, Wildcat. We’ll manage.”

Silence descends upon us, broken only by the gentle rhythm of waves against the boat. Each of us is lost in our own thoughts, wondering if this drifting raft will become our final resting place.

"We've faced worse odds," Foster says finally, his voice steady with determination. "We'll make it through this."

I nod, trying to muster the same resolve. "Just a little longer," I agree, though the words feel empty on my parched lips.

Eve manages a weak smile, her eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and hope. "We'll find a way," she murmurs softly, her voice a fragile thread of optimism amidst the despair.

As the sun begins its descent towards the horizon, casting a golden glow over the endless sea, we cling to that fragile hope. Together, we endure the sweltering heat and the gnawing thirst, praying silently for a miracle—a passing ship, a glimmer of rescue, a chance to survive another day on this unforgiving journey across the open waters.

The diesel has run dry, leaving us adrift in the vast expanse of the ocean, at the mercy of currents and wind. The sails, battered by the previous night's storm, hang in tatters, unable to catch even the faintest breeze to propel us forward.

We gather in a somber silence, the weight of our dwindling supplies and uncertain future heavy on our minds. The salt-crusted remnants of rations sit in the storage units we built, meager sustenance that now feels more like a cruel reminder of our plight than a source of nourishment.

Foster, usually stalwart and optimistic, wears a furrowed brow as he surveys our damaged sails. Eve's usually bright eyes are dulled by exhaustion and the persistent pain of her sunburns which she keeps silently to herself. Astro studies the horizon with a mix of determination and resignation, searching for any sign of rescue amidst the endless expanse of blue.

"We're down to the last of the food," I announce quietly, breaking the uneasy silence that has settled over us like a shroud.

Foster nods grimly, his jaw clenched in frustration. "And the water? "

I hesitate, unwilling to voice the grim truth. "It won't last more than another day," I admit reluctantly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Eve's shoulders sag, and she leans wearily against Foster, seeking solace in his steady presence. "What do we do now?" she asks softly, the question hanging in the stifling air.

Foster's gaze hardens with resolve. "We ration what's left," he declares firmly. "And we keep our eyes open for any chance of rescue."

With our options dwindling and our situation growing more dire by the hour, we cling to the slender thread of hope that rescue may come. Together, we endure the sweltering heat of the day and the biting chill of the night.

As despair threatens to settle in like a heavy fog, a distant speck on the horizon catches Astro's eye. I look up to see what he’s staring at and squint against the blinding sun, my heart racing as the speck grows larger, gradually taking shape as a large fishing boat cuts through the shimmering waves.

"It's a boat!" Astro exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief and relief.

Hope surges through us like a sudden gust of wind. We scramble to our feet, waving frantically, shouting hoarsely, our voices cracking with emotion after days of strained silence.

Sure enough, a commercial fishing boat emerges from the haze, growing larger with each passing second. Relief floods through me like a wave breaking on the shore.

The fishing boat draws nearer, its crew shouting back to us, their voices carrying over the water like a lifeline. Hands reach out, strong and sure, to pull us aboard. Astro goes first, and then we hand him Eve.

We all feel a rush of gratitude as we step onto the sturdy deck, the hardwood beneath our feet a welcome change from the swaying uncertainty of our own vessel.

"Thank you," Foster manages to say, grasping the hand of the fisherman who pulled us to safety.

He nods, a grizzled smile spreading across his weathered face. "Good, good," he replies, and we realize he may not understand English very well. His eyes, though, reflect the depths of our shared relief .

One of the other fishermen approaches, offering Eve a bottle of water. Her hands tremble as she reaches for it, but Astro intercepts, taking it from the fisherman with a nod of thanks. He drinks from it first, swallows, and then, satisfied, hands it to Eve. It’s not about being greedy. He's testing it—ensuring it's safe. Eve would bring in an excellent price in the trafficking world. In moments like these, trust is a luxury we can’t afford with strangers; we can only rely on each other.

As the fishing boat turns away from our damaged vessel, I look back at what was nearly our tomb. There are places I wouldn’t mind dying in, but that isn’t one of them. The image of our small, battered boat against the vast ocean is a stark reminder of how close we came to being lost forever.

The sun sets in a blaze of orange and gold, casting a warm, serene glow over the ocean that had threatened to swallow us whole. The colors reflect off the waves, making the water look almost welcoming, a stark contrast to the peril it held. We are battered and exhausted, but we are alive.

The fishermen, kind-eyed and weathered by years at sea, hand us towels and whatever spare clothes they have. The rough fabric feels like luxury against our salt-crusted skin. For now, they leave us be, likely understanding that we need a moment to process our survival. I’m sure the captain has already radioed in our rescue, though we haven’t yet told him who we are.

We huddle together, feeling a cautious hope. Our silence is heavy with unspoken thoughts about what comes next. We’ll probably meet with some sea patrollers before we reach land and will have to explain everything—our plane crash, the island, the days drifting aimlessly over the ocean, the sheer luck of our rescue.

I imagine the headline: "Five College Students and Their Teacher Disappear in the Indian Ocean." Our ghostly disappearance must have made international news and despite all the rescue efforts money could buy, they never found us.

I revert to my usual quiet self, leaning back against the hull of the fishing boat, the rough wood pressing into my back, a comforting contrast to the uncertainty that has consumed us. The relief of our rescue washes over me like a cool breeze, but a part of me remains tense, wary of our future.

Is this it for us, then? I look at each weary face, but my gaze stops at the blonde beauty before me. Eve seems a lot better now that she's rehydrated; her cheeks are regaining some color, and her eyes are less haunted. But that's not my concern.

Eve will revert back to Evelyn Winters, Manhattan’s society girl, if her parents get their way.

But hell will freeze over if she thinks I'm going to just let her go. And I'm pretty sure the other four won't let her either. She's a wildcat, always was and always will be. She can be whatever the fuck she wants, but we’ll all somehow make sure we’re right there with her. Society girl, socialite, charity balls, museum fundraiser. I don’t give a shite as long as she and that pussy of hers remain our property.

Her resilience and spirit kept us going, making us believe we could survive. Even now, in the midst of relief, there's a fire in her eyes that refuses to be extinguished. That fire, that wildness, is what draws us all to her, what binds our group together.

We’ve been through hell and back, and we’ve come out the other side. The thought of losing her, of watching her be molded back into the polished, controlled Evelyn Winters, fills me with a dread deeper than the ocean we just escaped. She deserves to be who she is, wild and free, unbound by the expectations of others. I know she’ll fight it too, she doesn’t want that life anymore.

I glance at Foster, Astro, Zane, and Byron, all of them as weary and relieved as I am. They share my sentiment, and I can see it in their eyes and in the set of their jaws. We’re more than just survivors now; we’re a family forged in adversity.

Eve catches my eye, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. She knows what I’m thinking, and she silently agrees. No one’s going to put out her fire. Not if we have anything to say about it.

An older, weathered man approaches us, his face lined with years of sun and sea. He takes in the sight of the six of us, huddled together, battered but alive. I assume he's the captain.

"I'll have to log this with the local authorities," he says in almost perfect English.

"Which local authorities?" Foster asks, his tone cautious.

"Galle," the captain replies. Seeing our confused expressions, he adds, "Sri Lanka."

"Fucking hell, how did we end up there?" Zane asks, voicing the question on all our minds. We all turn to look at Byron.

"Hey, we drifted for twenty-four hours without navigation," Byron replies defensively. "We could have gone anywhere. "

"You didn’t even know where we were to begin with," Astro retorts, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

"Look," Eve interjects before an argument can start, "it could have been worse. We could have ended up on that island, you know, the one where foreigners are not welcome and savages live."

Foster huffs a laugh, followed by Zane. I can't help but join in, and soon Astro and Byron are laughing too. The captain stares at us as if we've lost the plot, and maybe we have. After what we've been through, a little insanity seems like a well-deserved break.

The laughter eases the tension, a small release of the stress that has bound us tight. For a moment, we’re not stranded survivors but a group of friends united by our shared ordeal and the absurdity of our situation.

The captain, still watching us with a mixture of curiosity and concern, finally speaks up. "You've been through a lot," he says, his voice softer now. "But you're safe here. We'll get you to shore, and the authorities will help you from there."

When our laughter dies down, the captain takes out a packet of cigarettes and offers us one. The smell of tobacco wafts through the air, but it’s the last thing I need right now. “I’m guessing you crazy kids decided to sail across the world, and your yacht capsized?”

We exchange glances, unsure how to respond, preferring silence over revealing too much. Rich kids always fetch good ransoms. If they get my and Eve’s surnames, it could trigger dollar signs even in the best of people.

Eve sits beside me, and I can feel the slight tremor in her hands. I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she looks at me, her eyes filled with gratitude and unspoken fears. We’ve been through hell together, and we’ll get through this too.

“Were there more of you?” he asks.

“Two more,” Foster says quietly. “They didn’t survive.”

The man inhales sharply, flicking the ashes off his cigarette, and stands up.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “I’ll have one of my men get some food for you. We’re about a day away from any patrolling ship, so I’ll radio in your rescue.”

He looks at Eve, and a fierce protective instinct surges within me. His gaze lingers on her a moment too long, and it sets off alarm bells in my mind. A low, involuntary growl rumbles from my throat, and the others pick up on it instantly. We subtly close ranks around her, forming a protective semicircle.

There are five of us and six of them. I'm confident we can take over this boat if it comes to that. Each of us is armed, knives hidden in our clothes, ready for whatever might happen. We don’t trust anyone, especially not men who eye our own with that kind of intent.

The captain seems to realize his misstep, his eyes flicking between us and calculating the odds. He knows the numbers aren’t in his favor and clears his throat.

“I’ll need your names to call it in,” the captain says, backing down slightly. His gaze softens as he addresses Eve directly. “Your name, miss?”

I swallow hard, feeling a lump form in my throat.

This is it.

Back to our old lives. I’ll be Jack Bancroft again, and the others will take on their old roles, slipping back into the identities we wore before this ordeal reshaped us.

Eve, always the strongest among us, moves forward slightly. She meets his eyes with a steady, unwavering gaze.

“Olivia Summers. My name is Olivia Summers.”