Day at the beach / Plank

You've been stranded at sea for a little over 3 days. No food, no water, little sleep. The remains of a broken and charred pool chair keeps you afloat, keeps the tiresome saga going. You kick kick kick kick.

Your mind is slowly becoming pancake batter. The birds are speaking to you. They say you need water. They say you're going to die soon. You yell back at them but it's not much of a retort or a yell for that matter. It's a raspy groan that does nothing but bolster the birds grim forecast. It delights them and they carry on.

You see land off in the distance. It's not the first time in the past 81 hours you thought you've seen a finish line. The sea can play tricks on the mind and the mind can play tricks the eyes. Having no alternate plan, and against the advice of the cynical birds, you succumb whatever remaining strength you have to paddle towards what you hold hope is your salvation. You kick kick kick kick. As you get closer you think of tall pitchers of ice water, gyros with tzatziki sauce, and 'Seinfeld' reruns.

A lifeguard station comes into view. The birds cease their incessant teasing. You paddle harder. Several minutes later you're able to make out umbrellas, sunbathers, and beach blankets. There's music. It sounds like Beck, perhaps Prince. The land is real. You're going to live.

As your frail and beaten body emerges from the sea you stagger up onto the beach. No one seems to notice. The hot sand sears your bare feet. You notice a pair of flip flops nearby, which, in your delirium, you begin to put on your feet without thinking twice.

The owner of the flip flops, a tanned and muscular European looking fellow, approaches you and asks if you're some kind smart guy. He shoves you once, hard, before punching you in the face, shattering your nose as 'Purple Rain' plays, sending you back pedalling into the sea from whenst you came.

zeroth life lesson: just because you're a survivor doesn't mean you're entitled to anything.