Chapter 2

Slowly John returned to his senses. He must still be alive then, he thought stoically to himself. He seemed to be laying on sand. Must have washed to shore, he thought wearily, content to rest where he was. Eventually his subconcious caught up with his rational mind, and he noticed something that had been bothering him on some level, or rather the absence of several things that had been causing him to tense up, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, or the next ploink of the dripping faucet. What was missing were sounds, smells that were so universal to his existance that he hardly ever noticed them, but he was very aware of their abscence. There was no sound of waves sloshing against the shore or chirping against pilings or boats. There was no scent of fish, seaweed, salt, that defined the scent of the shore. There were no cries of seagulls feeling lonely or squabbling over scraps, no raven's croaks, in fact, the only sound was the susurration of the wind against sand. The dry, powdery, hot sand.

John noticed that instead of the moist smells of the ocean, the smell was a flinty, ozone scent, and the air was very dry. Almost at the same time as he thought that, he realized that he was thirsty. With a groan, John managed to sit up, and began to force himself to open his eyes, which he noticed were somewhat swollen. His face stung a bit, partly from the freezing salt water of- last night? of whenever, and partly from a fierce sun which had reddened his leathery tan skin, although it looked to just be rising. It was the increasing heat of the day which had awakened him. Squinting painfully, John managed to start to make out objects against the bright white glare. Yep, sand.

The temperature was getting warmer, so John knew he needed shelter, and if none were to be found near, he would have to bury himself in the sand for the day. When night came, he would be able to see perhaps, just where in the world he was, or if he was. He shook his head at himself, and gave a dry chuckle. Yeah, that was a silly notion. John stood up, and marked where east was by the lifting sun, and scanned the horizon for something else other than dry blowing dunes. Like the huge seventy foot one behind him, which blocked his view to the north. He struggled around to a less steep part, and found his way to the top, trying to avoid the softer slope which he found gave way under his feet. Better to walk a few hundred feet, than climb the darn thing four or five times what with the backsliding.

At the top, the overly warm John, who's blood was acustomed to much colder weather, took his arms from the sleeves of his survival suit, his only clothing besides the shorts which modesty and haste had left under it, and draped then down his chest, leaving the hood up to protect his neck and head. That still left his legs and feet sweltering in the suit, but it couldn't be helped. Like most fishermen in northern climates, John's skin other than on his hands and face and up to mid bicep in the summer, was pale fish-belly white. The Fisherman's Tan. As it was, he was glad he had his back to the south, protecting his chest a little anyway.

John looked around again, this time from the tall vantage at the top of the sand dune. Just sand, in every direction- except were those hills or mountains, over there to the north? They could be either, but they gave him a direction to proceed. Tonight. For now, he needed to protect himself from the sun, and conserve his strength. Just because he was still alive today, didn't mean he would still be alive the day after tomorrow. Still, his fatalism from the preceding month was gone, and he was back to his sense of immortality, his confidence in himself, and his chances of survival.

Being lost in a trackless desert wasn't that much different than being adrift on the trackless sea, but to John's mind, it was a much better situation. Perhaps he was just deluding himself, he thought as he dug into the north face of the dune to find cooler sand to burrow under. He had to don his suit again, to keep the sand off of him, but if he wasn't moving and exerting himself, the insulation of the sand and suit should keep him cool enough. He fell asleep, hope in his heart, despite being without water in a vast empty desert.

John awoke to the cooling of evening, the reddish, orangey, purple sky starting to turn navy blue and black at the top. Already a few planets could be seen scattered about the sky. John started walking towards the purple haze of mountains, now clearer in the rays of the setting sun. The sun was already down at his location, and as the evening darkened, John paused to await the stars. He wanted to get a stellar fix before losing his direction and wandering aimlessly. As the stars were revealed by the lifting curtain of night, John was relieved to see familiar constellations.

At least he was still on his own planet! He shook his head again, mocking his train of thought. Still, if he could be somehow moved from the Gulf of Alaska to some as yet unknown desert, was it that much of a stretch to imagine having somehow been teleported across lightyears? In any case, however he had arrived here, he could survive, and make his way back. First things first, he needed to survive. He got back on his feet, and took a fix on the north star, and headed towards the hope of the mountains or hills yonder. He could rule out Australia, anyway.

Wanting to make the most of the cooler darkness, John kept walking without resting all night long. When dawn came, he rested for the short time after the stars had vanished and before he could see the hills ahead. They were much closer now, and he could see that they were indeed hills and not mountains, but perhaps there would be water, or people, or a road. Even a slight change in the topography could make for vegetation and life, nourishment. By now he was very thirsty, and on one patch of wasteland that was not sand covered, John had picked up a grape sized pebble to hold in his mouth, to stimulate salivation. Not quite salvation, but close, he thought muzzily. But after walking all night, his mouth was dry, and he spat the pebble out. He needed to find shelter before the sun got hot, and he needed water before dawn the next day, or he was not going to make it after all. Even with these thoughts, John was optimistic. Surely he wasn't ment to die out here, after somehow being 'rescued' from the ocean.