He came to. He was choking.
His body was oscillating between horrid gasps for air and hideous coughs expelling saltwater from his lungs.
In the first moments, it was pure bodily panic that moved him. He wheezed desperately and wide-eyed. He slithered up the beach on his belly, towards nowhere in particular, but hopefully, away from death. But after a few seconds he halted and rose to his hands and knees. His fists gripped the sand as if he was trying to hold onto the earth itself—that if he grasped it hard enough, his soul might stay tethered to it.
Now, his face stern, he coughed louder and gasped in controlled intervals. He felt his panic subside as he coughed up the last drops of water. He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow. He looked back to see a churned, iron-gray sea littered with oak planks, and a rain-drenched shore littered with small bodies.
His memory was trying to return to him, but it couldn’t. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who the bodies belonged to. He just knew he was alive. And that was enough for now.
Then one of the bodies stood up; a black shadow against the leaden sky. It took two faltering, limping steps toward him, paused, and then broke into an unnatural, jagged run. Terrified, he fell onto his back, drove his heels into the wet sand, and desperately crawled away from death again.