Eroda Sunshine

Fantasy Island?

He was aware of a subtle warmth that seemed to seep into him . . . the sun? Yes, it must be the sun. It was accompanied by a gentle, cool breeze. The brightness penetrated his eyelids so that he was reluctant to open his eyes. He was so very tired.

Why was he so tired?

The feel of something smooth yet grainy shifted under his body when he stirred. His thinking was foggy and ill-defined. He tried to remember where he was, but the murkiness of his brain prohibited it. He thought he heard water, very near too. Sloshing. Like waves gently lapping on a shore. What shore? He couldn't be on the beach, although it sure sounded like it. Was he dreaming? Yeah, that must be it. Now . . . if he could only open his sore eyes he could see for himself that he'd only been dreaming.

But it was too much effort. His temples pounded with a dull yet wicked headache. Unable to resist seeing his surroundings any longer, and changing his mind, he opened his eyes with slow, gargantuan effort and squinted, attempting to ward off the sickening head pain that was sending darts into his brain. Only for a second, he told himself. What he saw made him gasp aloud.

Sand . . . and lots of it. But no ordinary sand. Sand that was so white it looked like talcum powder. Pristine, unmarred. There were some beaches in England with white sand, but he'd not been to them. Still, from the photographs he'd seen online, the sand wasn't this white. This was amazing. Totally sick.

Oh! And the turquoise! How could he have missed that? A turquoise sea that looked like something on a post card. He'd always wondered if there were actually any beaches like this, or if the photos were enhanced. The gentle, innocuous waves were crystalline, and reminded him of something in a fantasy world.

If this was a dream, he balked at the idea of waking up. But the relentless headache told him he must, indeed, be awake. And he was so sore. Dear God, but he was sore!

In a hot instant, it came to him. The cruise! He'd been on a cruise. A cruise that was headed to Ireland; north Ireland, France and Scotland. But what had happened? Slowly, it slid back into his consciousness.

The feeling of excitement of going on a cruise - his first one ever. He'd been buzzing with it. But it hadn't lasted long.

The price of Harry's cruise was discounted because of the time of year - March. He had been delighted to get a good price, but he had paid the fiddler in the end. Bad weather. A storm approaching . . . no time to prepare. How could you prepare anyway? The ship had tipped and rocked at first, and that wasn't so bad. But then it had begun to lurch. He had supposed the captain had known the storm was lurking, but storms can be so unpredictable. They can change course quickly.

The rest was unclear. Harry remembered being nervous, and that had quickly turned to terror as people began to scream, and then fall and roll on the floor in the lounge, where Harry had been having a leisurely drink moments before. Harry had grabbed onto the plush couch he'd been sitting on, and at first it kept him anchored, but not for long. He could feel that the waves were getting bigger and more ferocious by the minute. The couch began to slide across the floor. He watched on helplessly as people panicked and tried to run - but there was nowhere to run.

Looking out of the observation lounge windows was impossible, as all you could see was water, wild water, devastating water, battering forcefully against the glass as if it was some demented monster scraping and scrambling to get inside the ship. As the waves became ever higher and more violent, it was evident something very bad was about to happen.

Would they capsize? Even sink? Harry had no idea. People were now bouncing all over the lounge, desperate to find something to grab for purchase. Amongst the screams, a man called out for his wife. Harry hit the floor hard, landing on his shoulder. A muffled moan escaped his lips.