She clung on to the piece
of driftwood, praying for daylight. The icy cold waters lapped against her
fingers chilling them to the point of numbness.
But she dared not let go, for letting go would mean death in this frozen
sea. She was exhausted, having drifted
for hours, but she knew that she couldn’t fall asleep. Tonight, sleep meant death.
She didn’t have to look around to know
that the ship was still sinking; she could still hear the large bubbles from
the undertow gurgling loudly in her memory.
Onward she looked as the driftwood floated on, hopefully to some
shore. If she was lucky, she would float
to Nova Scotia before day broke. Then
she could run to get help for her injuries and get treated for what had to be
hypothermia setting in.
Just
think of Canada and America, she thought…
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