there."
Connor angled the glasses so the sun's rays shone through them onto the pile of wood and leaves. But no matter how long he held the pose—and his arm ached badly after a while—he couldn't start a conflagration. The leaves and wood absolutely refused to catch fire. Finally he gave up on a note of despair.
Paul, refusing to accept defeat, said, "Let me try." He rearranged the pile of tinder and then held the glasses just above it, but he had no better success than Connor had.
By now the boat they had spotted had disappeared from their view without ever getting close, but the two men agreed that if another boat were to come into sight, it would be good to have the fire already burning brightly. Despite their best efforts, however, they could not get the pile of tinder to light. When Paul's arm was tired, Connor took over again, and when Connor's arm pained him unbearably, Paul took another turn. It was all to no avail.
"It works in comic books," Connor said.
"It works for Boy Scouts," Paul added.
"Were you a Boy Scout?" Connor asked. "That's a story you didn't tell me yet."
"No, but my boyhood best buddy was."
"Tell me about your boyhood best buddy," Connor prompted, and Paul regretfully put the glasses back in his pocket and settled back to regale Connor with another story, after which he asked Connor about his best bud from childhood. Connor told Paul about both of them—his best friend through eighth grade, till Dan's family moved out of the area, and then his high school best friend. The pair were getting to know each other and their backstories ever better, but they were no closer to being rescued.
No more vessels appeared anywhere within sight for the rest of the day, and it was a weary and discouraged duo who lay down to go to sleep that night, once again entwined in each other's arms.
"At least it hasn't rained," Paul said.
"Thank God for small favors," Connor said.
A lone bird called from the top of a tree as the pair snuggled in each other's arms and once again talked till they were ready to go to sleep. This time sleep claimed Connor first.
Once again he was the first one awake, and once again his arm was cramped and, when he tried to gently move it, Paul stirred and awakened. Once again a bird was singing—a different song and presumably a different bird, but Connor commented, "A birdsong lullaby and a birdsong reveille. There are good sides to living out in nature."
"Yeah, if you don't mind being marooned and maybe never found," Paul commented morosely. The fog swirled around them. "Damn this fog. There could be a boat right out there and we wouldn't see them and they wouldn't see us."
"They're not out looking for us in the fog," Connor soothed. "They'll wait till the fog lifts.
And indeed when the fog lifted…there was a boat! It was moving in zigzag patterns, obviously sweeping the waters in search of survivors from the ferry wreck. The two men joined their voices to yell loudly, "Helloooooo! Over here! Helloooooo! Help! Help!" But the boat showed no signs that anyone aboard had heard them.
"Give me your glasses!" Connor said urgently to Paul while whirling around toward the bushes behind him.
"Sure, but what's up?" Paul asked, extricating his glasses from his shirt pocket.
"Watch," said Connor. He retrieved the abandoned pizza dog from its resting place and removed the foil wrapper. Hurrying back down to the shoreline, he quickly washed the residue of food from it in the waters of the bay, then tore off a piece just a little bit larger than one of the lenses of Paul's eyeglasses. He wrapped it around the frame of one lens then held the glasses at an angle such that the sun's rays bounced off the aluminum foil, magnified by the glasses. He hoped the glint would be visible to the occupants of the boat.
The boat made a few more zigzag sweeps across the water while Connor desperately flashed the glasses at them. Then the boat suddenly turned and headed straight for the island.
"They
Connor angled the glasses so the sun's rays shone through them onto the pile of wood and leaves. But no matter how long he held the pose—and his arm ached badly after a while—he couldn't start a conflagration. The leaves and wood absolutely refused to catch fire. Finally he gave up on a note of despair.
Paul, refusing to accept defeat, said, "Let me try." He rearranged the pile of tinder and then held the glasses just above it, but he had no better success than Connor had.
By now the boat they had spotted had disappeared from their view without ever getting close, but the two men agreed that if another boat were to come into sight, it would be good to have the fire already burning brightly. Despite their best efforts, however, they could not get the pile of tinder to light. When Paul's arm was tired, Connor took over again, and when Connor's arm pained him unbearably, Paul took another turn. It was all to no avail.
"It works in comic books," Connor said.
"It works for Boy Scouts," Paul added.
"Were you a Boy Scout?" Connor asked. "That's a story you didn't tell me yet."
"No, but my boyhood best buddy was."
"Tell me about your boyhood best buddy," Connor prompted, and Paul regretfully put the glasses back in his pocket and settled back to regale Connor with another story, after which he asked Connor about his best bud from childhood. Connor told Paul about both of them—his best friend through eighth grade, till Dan's family moved out of the area, and then his high school best friend. The pair were getting to know each other and their backstories ever better, but they were no closer to being rescued.
No more vessels appeared anywhere within sight for the rest of the day, and it was a weary and discouraged duo who lay down to go to sleep that night, once again entwined in each other's arms.
"At least it hasn't rained," Paul said.
"Thank God for small favors," Connor said.
A lone bird called from the top of a tree as the pair snuggled in each other's arms and once again talked till they were ready to go to sleep. This time sleep claimed Connor first.
Once again he was the first one awake, and once again his arm was cramped and, when he tried to gently move it, Paul stirred and awakened. Once again a bird was singing—a different song and presumably a different bird, but Connor commented, "A birdsong lullaby and a birdsong reveille. There are good sides to living out in nature."
"Yeah, if you don't mind being marooned and maybe never found," Paul commented morosely. The fog swirled around them. "Damn this fog. There could be a boat right out there and we wouldn't see them and they wouldn't see us."
"They're not out looking for us in the fog," Connor soothed. "They'll wait till the fog lifts.
And indeed when the fog lifted…there was a boat! It was moving in zigzag patterns, obviously sweeping the waters in search of survivors from the ferry wreck. The two men joined their voices to yell loudly, "Helloooooo! Over here! Helloooooo! Help! Help!" But the boat showed no signs that anyone aboard had heard them.
"Give me your glasses!" Connor said urgently to Paul while whirling around toward the bushes behind him.
"Sure, but what's up?" Paul asked, extricating his glasses from his shirt pocket.
"Watch," said Connor. He retrieved the abandoned pizza dog from its resting place and removed the foil wrapper. Hurrying back down to the shoreline, he quickly washed the residue of food from it in the waters of the bay, then tore off a piece just a little bit larger than one of the lenses of Paul's eyeglasses. He wrapped it around the frame of one lens then held the glasses at an angle such that the sun's rays bounced off the aluminum foil, magnified by the glasses. He hoped the glint would be visible to the occupants of the boat.
The boat made a few more zigzag sweeps across the water while Connor desperately flashed the glasses at them. Then the boat suddenly turned and headed straight for the island.
"They
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