Dopecentury XXIII --- Tipping Point
This short fiction is part of Dopecentury, an experimental project where I attempt to channel the aural aesthetics of Dopesmoker into written text. (Dopesmoker is the legendary stoner-doom metal masterpiece by the band Sleep, of which it is said: "the monotony rarely becomes tedious.") My plan is to listen to the single hour-long track of Dopesmoker while writing each of these "Dopecentury" entries. And repeat that 100 times. See the Dopecentury project page for more details.
He watched the ship receding ahead of him. Far more quickly than he hoped. "Surely someone saw me," he thought. It seemed likely, the ship had been crowded, it was daylight, there were always people about, always someone staring out over the water.
But the stern was quickly growing smaller and smaller, and was giving no indication of slowing or turning. He wiped the stinging sea water from his eyes, and stared hard at the speck of a vessel quickly approaching the horizon and willed it to turn.
It did not.
It slipped over the horizon, or at least below the swell of the waves, and dragged with it a huge portion of his hope.
Time to recalibrate. First: with just his head above water he was as low as one could be. That meant his horizon was was extremely close, maybe just a mile. It could take a large ship a long distance to slow and turn. Perhaps they were turning right now.
Second: the waves were the large, long swells of the middle ocean. A relatively calm, clear day. He didn't have whitecaps or breakers to worry about, he just rode easily up and down as the surface passed beneath him.
Third: while the water seemed cold, he knew it was not deathly cold. Where had he read that in forty degree water one could survive for only fifteen minutes? This water was much warmer than that. Though certainly cold enough that he needed to consider temperature as a factor here.
And finally his swimming condition. He knew he was skilled enough at treading water, and fit enough that he could last for a while. There was definitely a limiting factor here, though he didn't know if it was his ability to continue treading water or the temperature he was pretty sure one of those two things were going to determine his fate.
"Determine his fate," was how he said it to himself. But underneath the conscious thought was the knowledge that what he really meant was determine his death. He pushed that aside.
"This is survivable," he said to himself, "I could potentially last for hours out here. It's critical that the ship returns within that time frame, but there's a chance that could happen. My family knew I had been up on the rear deck. They will soon realize I'm missing, and turn back to search for me. I just need to hold out long enough for that to happen."
He turned his attention to his treading water technique. "I need to conserve as much energy as possible." He slowed his movements to the point where he could just keep his head above the surface. A calm day for the deep ocean, sure, but not exactly glass smooth. He still took a face full of seawater regularly, and when this happened it always took a time to clear his eyes again.
He alternated treading water with floating, on his back sometimes, or hanging his feet and arms down for a minute before rising back up for a breath. He also had to regularly rise up as high as possible to look for the ship, seeing it was his only hope. He calculated there was no perfect way to stay afloat with minimal energy. The best results would be from changing techniques to not tire out any specific muscle group too quickly.
Unfortunately conserving energy increased his susceptibility to the cold temperature of the water. Faster movement would keep him warmer, but he wouldn't last as long. His shivering and goosebumps were also not helping his efforts to conserve energy. And they were not doing much to help him stay warm either. The shivering was his life that was being shaken away.
The cold seeped into his fingers and toes. It made his feet and hands ache. But when, after some time, they stopped aching it was fear that took over, because he knew he was losing the battle with the cold.
"Survival is a challenge to the will. It is at all times," he thought, "but most days it's just a small challenge to the will. A minor afterthought in our daily lives. So minor, that on many days of my life — too many to count or remember — my inherent laziness won out over the will that would be required to contribute to my better overall survival. But on a normal day, survival is something far off in the future. Giving in to laziness feels like it has no real cost. Today is different. Today, giving in to laziness is to give in to death. Survival is front and center today, and will is the only thing I have to turn to." This is the train of thought that ran through his head while he stirred the cold clear water around him.
Every few minutes he would gather up his strength and stir the water a bit harder to raise his head slightly higher and get the briefest of glimpses of a slightly farther-off horizon. He would scan quickly around, looking for the dark dot that would indicate the ship coming back toward him.
But there was nothing to see but the white sky, the green water, and the bright orb of the sun. "Perhaps I'm already dead. Certainly I am engulfed in nothingness. How is that not death?"
"How long had it been now?" He couldn't tell. "Perhaps hours. Probably not though," he thought. "Probably more like half an hour to an hour. Long enough that the ship should be back this way, if it were coming back at all. On the other hand, maybe they were traveling a search pattern, unsure of where they lost me, or where I may have drifted to? In that case it could take them longer to find me. There's still hope."
He couldn't feel his limbs at all any more. And the muscles of his torso kept flexing involuntarily. "Perhaps a short break is in order," he thought, and slipped below the surface.
As soon as his head was under, he realized his mistake, and desperately spun his arms. His head popped back up into the air. "Fuck no! There are no breaks. A break is death." He waved his arms slowly back and forth.
"Everyone must die," he thought, "and there's really only two ways to die: some people die instantly from some traumatic event, or maybe in their sleep, without ever knowing that it was happening. Others, probably most people, have to choose the moment. They are confronted with a situation where there is no long any way back to life, and then, then a person has to cross the tipping point: they must resign themselves. How does one know when they have crossed that tipping point though? Certainly some people hold out as long as possible, and are forced over that tipping point. Still, it seems to me like they must know they are going over that tipping point, even if it's the last moment. It's a kind of conscious decision. Others maybe assess their situation and give in more easily, knowing that trying to push off the tipping point is a hopeless endeavor. Is one approach better than another?
"Pushing off the tipping point for as long as possible has the benefit of giving you the most chance of a miraculous recovery. On the other hand, it likely extends suffering unnecessarily. I suppose the best thing, since no one always gets out alive, is to recognize the approaching tipping point as level-headedly as possible, and makes sure you are going over it with full awareness. Don't embrace death, but don't let the decision be made for you either."
By now he didn't seem to be able to move his legs any longer. His arms waved only feebly. "Maybe just another quick break. A moment of relaxing and then I will have slightly more strength to pop back up and keep treading water."
His head slipped under. He looked up and all he could see was the bright light of the sun, piercing foggily down through the water.
"Oh," he thought, "there's the tipping point right there."