MAROONED OFF MOZAMBIQUE

hoping for the greyness of dawn to arrive. I was huddled down with seven other people in a makeshift bed made of two tandem paragliders. My body ached, we had no food and our only jug of water had been contaminated with saltwater and sand. The glider fabric had become an alarm clock, jarring us awake with a rasping sound every time we were blasted by wind or when one of us struggled to find a new spot to relieve their body from the hard sand. If I’d had a watch, I’d have checked it for the thousandth time but still the blanket of night refused to lift. I tried not to think about water and cursed myself silently for orchestrating this mess.