This had to be some kind of ledge, Kelly thought, gingerly moving forward, expecting that at any time he would disappear below the waves. Instead, he found the water becoming shallower. Several times he stumbled on the rocks and crashed into the waves once more, but, each time he did so, he quickly pulled himself up and stumbled determinedly on towards the breakers.
A short distance from where the waves were breaking, the ground suddenly disappeared and he was treading water again. He quickly scrambled onto the ledge and catching his breath, surveyed the distance between himself and the breakers. Only twenty yards or so.
He could do this.
Without a further thought he plunged back in and swam to the breakers.
In his weakened state he was relieved to catch hold of a rock under the surface as he approached the breaking waves. The current was stronger here and he realised now that the waves were breaking as a result of the sea flowing against a rocky outcrop, part of which was above the surface of the sea. He battled his way, half swimming, half rock climbing, towards this tiny island of hope.
He reached it and finally collapsed.
Kelly closed his eyes. Sleep seductively tried to claim him, but even in his feeble state, he understood that the easiest thing in the world at that moment would be to give in. If he did sleep now, he would never wake up.
He forced himself to stand and began jumping around, his foothold precarious, slapping his arms around his body in an attempt to increase circulation and produce some warmth. Taking stock of his situation, he found he was still some three to four hundred yards from the main shoreline. A brief exploration confirmed that his island was very narrow, and he was quickly treading water again within a few yards of venturing towards the shore.
Even above the water he knew he could not survive. His only chance was to reach the shore—so tantalizingly close—but having swum three quarters of a mile in freezing cold water he was not sure he could manage the last leg. And his clothes were so heavy.
But that was negative thinking. He mentally shook himself and made up his mind. Stripping down to his Royal Navy issue “passion killer” underpants, he stood shivering at the edge of the reef. After three false starts, and a further moment of hesitation, he plunged into the icy waves and struck out for the shore.
Unencumbered by his clothing he made good progress at first, but all too soon the overwhelming fatigue returned, and he was again pulling for his life. After one hundred and fifty yards his strokes had become almost mechanical as he faced a mental battle to continue. However, the closer the shore appeared the more determined he became to win. With the last hundred yards he had conquered nature, survived the elements, and won his mental battle. Kelly knew he was going to make it.
His hand touched firm ground and with a final burst of failing energy he scrambled out of the water and lay panting and shivering on the rocky shore. Again, he felt the overwhelming desire to sleep, but once more, with grim determination he refused to give in. He dragged himself mentally to his feet and his body reluctantly complied. The nearest house looked about three to four hundred yards away. He could make it.
No. He must make it.
With each slow step towards the house Kelly was tormented by his body as it urged him to stop and rest. He recognised the symptoms; he was in the final stages of hypothermia. He knew he must generate energy, or he would die. With bleak resolve he summoned the remainder of his depleted reserves and broke into a slow trot. The effort was agonising, but after a few yards he realised that his mind was clearing, and he was warming up. He redoubled his effort and increased his pace, but this was the last straw and in spite of his willpower and the gentle warmth returning to his body, he started to slip in and out of consciousness. He sensed his remaining strength sap away and watched in agony as the little house seemed to recede with each step. The world around him spun faster and faster.
He jerked to a stop. His face was against the door of the house; he had made it! Light shone through a window to his right. Perhaps it was one of the lights he had seen from his lookout point on the boat. When had that been? It seemed so long ago now. Shaking his head vigorously, trying to clear his fuddled mind, he banged heavily on the door.
“Help me,” he rasped. “Help me!”
He heard raised voices and the sound of movement. He raised his voice and cried out again in desperation,
“Help me!” He thumped the door harder.
The door opened a fraction and he glimpsed a face. With all his remaining strength he lunged at the light spilling through the crack of the door and fell into warmth … and unconsciousness.
Sybilla Thorstaadt stared down in shock at the creature that had just landed on her carpet. She observed the tall half-naked young man with the body of an athlete. His fair hair darkened by the water, matted with slowly thawing icicles. His skin had a bluish hue and was speckled with salt, his arms and legs covered with fresh bruises and scratches and his fingernails torn. His feet were disfigured, almost pulp.
Sybilla looked outside to see if anyone else was around or had witnessed the incident. She called for her husband to help move the young man into their lounge and hastily closed the front door. Without effort, Gunnar Thorstaadt lifted the unconscious man and carried him through into the lounge, laying hm on gently on the floor. That achieved, Gunnar rushed off to fetch towels
