Driftwood

She clung on to the piece of driftwood, praying for daylight. If this were a dream, Caroline would awaken just before she drowned. But this was no dream. The water was frigid, the night moonless, not a sound on the lake. She had gone for her nightly swim, but this time she went too far, lost her way. She could only tell where she was by the few lights on the shores. At least she was close to safety. Praying for daylight wouldn’t help, because it was just past midnight. Her only salvation was the piece of driftwood that hadn’t yet made it to shore. “Concentrate, Carrie. Don’t panic.” Despite the cold enveloping her extremities, she could feel the tide. It was calm and steady. Moving her legs, partly to keep blood flowing, she propelled the driftwood forward with the tide that would take her to a shoreline. Talking aloud to give the night some texture, she began reciting any nursery rhyme or poem she had learned. “Focus. Don’t let go. You’re almost there.” As she neared the shore, she felt waving water weeds tickling her legs. Reaching one toe down, she felt sand beneath her. “Still too deep to try to stand. Push the driftwood forward.” The lights from a cabin were brighter. “It’s my cabin!” She pushed the driftwood onto shore, struggled to sit up, leaned over and kissed the slimy wet surface. “You saved my life. Thank you, thank you!” Standing awkwardly, no longer weightless, she steadied herself until she could see down the beach. It was as empty as the lake, except for her towel lying alone in the heap she had left it in. 

~~~~~

That was the story my grandmother told me. Smiling, she said “That old piece of driftwood saved my life.” I had asked her about the ancient piece of polished driftwood on our porch. It had been there as long as I could remember. It was large enough for any child to use it for a horse. Resting unevenly, it always gave us a great gallop down the beach and through the waves. It was our coat hanger for random hats, coats, wet towels on sunny or rainy days. As an adult, I suspected the real meaning behind the ancient driftwood belonged to my stolid grandmother.

“Scared is what you’re feeling. Brave is what you’re doing.”

~ Emma Donoghue, Room

Author’s note: a random first line chosen from writingexercises.co.uk