Adrift - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The shoreline has become a figment, as if it evaporated in the heat. I wonder if now the world is but one ocean, the waves moving freely, gathering pace. Perhaps that's what happens when you are adrift, you fear that the perfect circle of blue is all that exists. It feels as if the wind comes to bring some sensation of touch, a soft hello from nature. And I have learned, in this desert of company, that it is better to let the brain be as empty as that horizon rather than to suffer loss of hope and the tide of emotions it brings.
In the vastness of the ocean it was easy to loose hope. Amy sat in the raft, taking in the view. In every direction the twilight blue ocean met the grey clouds on the horizon. It was like being shrunk to the size of just a few atoms and sat in the centre of a coin.- lost in a perfect circle of blue. For now it was inoffensive and benign, but it couldn't stay that way forever. This part of the world was prone to hurricanes at this time of year. But of course by the time one hit she would likely have expired from dehydration. How long had it been since the smuggler boat had abandoned her here? Too soft to put a bullet in her, too mean not to let her live. Perhaps her detachment would come looking for her when she failed to rendezvous, it was hard to say. And how would they find her way out here? She was the proverbial "needle in a haystack" and she knew it.
He clung to the only remnant left of the boat large enough to support him and let his legs dangle into the frigid Atlantic waters. The breeze that had been pushing his sailboat steadily onward now only ruffled his damp hair, chilling his scalp. He was at the mercy of the currents, helplessly bobbing in the waves, how long could he last set adrift like this? He had no more direction than a message in a bottle.
Max and Charlie still had the oars, but they lacked the strength to row. The old wooden dinghy drifted according to the currents and the wind that gusted around them. Yesterday they had sweated and toiled, but now they were dehydrated and weak. Yesterday they had kept each other's spirits up, now they looked at the sky with the eyes of dead men. Their skin, once soft and brown, was now blistered and painful. There was nowhere to hide from the relentless sun until night fell. All they could do was bob on the waves and wait for release.
Through my closed lashes the sun-rays still shine. The ocean laps around my torso and bobs my legs in the current, wetting my arms that cling to this life-preserving chunk of what was once a fine boat. It is curious I suppose to be baked from above and chilled from below simultaneously. My ears pick up every sound and there is no detectable song from an engine or indeed anything manmade. The lapping of the waves are as good as any ticking clock, marking out the time into neat little portions. With each one a little more heat leaves my limbs, a little more hope dissolves with the salt. There is apart of my brain that thinks if it only tries hard enough it can will all this to be a dream. In this fantasy the breeze becomes a nonchalant gust from my bedroom window, fresh and welcome. Indeed, without rescue my night will come faster than the setting of the sun, though I have no intention of going with any grace. I dangle not to forlornly release my life, but to conserve energy for the fight ahead.
So odd that in this vastness of water the land is just ten feet below the boat, rising to a ridge before plummeting to unseen depths. With the clearness of the water I can see the rocks. I could dive and resurface, but for how long? I feel my eyes begin to close under the steady heat of the sun and dreaming taking over from real thought. I just pray as the carousel of ideas begins that this vessel drifts toward a shore.
In the middle of otherwise unbroken water there is a boat, an old fisherman's rowboat. At first it appears empty, but Ryan isn't so sure. The boat moves more as if it were weighted down and he tells the others to keep out of sight under deck. He's right. Whoever the wretch is they were set adrift as a means of death, wrists and ankles bound with thick rope.
Casey rests his head on the side of the boat and watches the moving water, feeling the bobbing of the boat with every part of his being. Soon enough the dehydration will kick in, he knows it. As the sun-rays sear into his skin he waits for the hallucinations to begin.
Darla's favourite colour had always been blue. She had married in blue with cornflowers in her hair, yet now, as she drifted on the ocean under an unbroken sky she lost her love for it. Other than the unforgiving sun there was only blue to see - she felt like a lover of sugar offered only sugar to eat forever.
An expanse of time in which you are neither here nor there; that dwindling space between consciousness you often fall prey to. Gazing upon nothing in particular, remaining lost at sea. Battling the wars from the inside. Drowning, sinking, in the thoughts that cannot be verbalized. Yet here you remain, lost at sea.