When morning comes, the sun breaking over the choppy gray horizon, I can hardly believe it. How did I survive the storm? All last night it raged, pitching me violently back and forth as massive swells pitched over the inflatable sides of the raft. My clothes reek of salt and vomit. My hands shake, my skin is blistered by the salt and sea, and water sloshes around the bottom of the raft as I adjust my position. Automatically, I reach for my bail bucket.

I can't find it.

Then I remember that it's gone. Washed over the side of the boat, along with the fishing twine, medical kit, and the smaller pail of fresh rainwater. No. Oh no no no no. My stomach flip-flops before nosediving staight down to my toes. Oh God no. What will I do now?

I look up at the sky, but there isn't a cloud in sight. It's not going to rain any time soon. And even if there was, what would I collect it in? Both my buckets are gone.

Today's Day Five of being adrift. Considering all it's been through, the raft is still in pretty good shape. The same can't be said for me though. My clothes are stiff with salt water, the sleeves rubbing painfully against my sunburned skin. The last thing I ate was half granola bar on Day Two. Now, my water is gone.

Initially, I was afraid that I was going starve, or that sharks would see me and overturn the raft. Mm, castaway college student, they would think. Nice and crunchy. Now, I'm afraid of my own thirst.

A person can last weeks without food, but how long can they last without water? Three days? Four?

I want to cry.

Screw that, I am going to cry. My chin quivers. Hot tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, and the ocean turns into a wet blur.

Damn it all.

Suddenly, I hear a loud splash