The ship was torn apart on the sharp reef. Was it ironic that it was my son's toy ship, a model of the sloop we were sailing in, dashed to pieces seconds before the full-sized boat followed it onto the coral? The churning surf looked like milk or masses of cream, the rending of the side like gunshots as the wood gave. I saw splinters shooting through the torn sails. The wheel shuddered then started spinning as if down a hill. All was falling sliding, grinding, and going up or apart. Off aways was the life raft, with my son, daughters and wife ... getting farther and father away.
When I awoke, an orchid rested on a spotless side table, a glass of water, some gauze. A Japanese doctor. I was trussed up in a body cast.
"Did they make it?" I asked the Japanese doctor. "Did they get away?"
He couldn't speak English, didn't understand.
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