The Secret of the Bermuda Triangle

By R W Jaeger

Whoa. You have found The Secret of the Bermuda Triangle, the great American adventure novel, which was named Finalist at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards and was named Winner at the Texas Association of Authors Book Awards, a contest open to international submissions.

This adventure is the first book of the unintended Trilogy of Light. The story stands alone and connects to the other two books by a theme: we all have genius, inner light, but we seldom bring it out in creative acts because we have been bludgeoned into conformity.

The Trilogy of Light is not religious. Nor is it an intellectual construct. Each book of the Trilogy has many powers. Here is the one I want to share with you now: each book builds a refuge in which you can connect to your own insights. When a new idea, which may be the solution to a personal problem, comes to you, close the book and write the idea down. Then it is up to you to give this idea life.

The Secret of the Bermuda Triangle dips and soars with the adventures of eighteen-year-old Troy as told by him. After graduating from high school, he travels to Florida and from there he seeks passage through the Bahamas to South America in a schooner. A storm catapults Troy into the sea. He swims for a shore unseen, but not before he removes his boots and clothes. The next morning he wakes up on a beach. He sees no signs of civilization. No roads nearby. No ships on the water. No jets in the sky. He is alone in what appears to be a strange new world.

Troy decides to run the beach until somebody pops up. Somebody does pop up, but not who you would expect for a beach in the Bahamas. In the story to follow, find Troy's secret for how to live on planet Earth.

The other two novels of the Trilogy of Light are Sharing a Man (no, it's not a dirty book) and Next Stop, Heaven (a journey beyond the matrix that controls how we think and act). Please remember: all three books of the Trilogy are not religious. Nor are they intellectual constructs. Each of the three books is an expression of the spirit that gives birth to, and sustains, civilization. A new civilization brimming with unlimited potential awaits you.

Two excerpts from The Secret of the Bermuda Triangle:

An eerie perfection pervaded this paradise. The big water still stretched out to a blank horizon. A lazy wave curled to shore. Water skimmed the sand and sank under my feet. Between my feet I noticed an exposed shell. I dug alongside the shell with the heel of my foot. The shell extended far below. Now on my knees, I dug with my fingers. I felt no shell but bone. My fingers probed a cavity and by hooking my fingers into it I pulled the bony structure free. One look and I dropped my find. I scrambled to my feet. There on the sand lay a human skull.
"What is this place?"
My first and only previous exposure to a human skull occurred in eighth-grade science class. The teacher kept a skull in a large glass cabinet. Every day that skull studied me through scooped-out eyes. From my seat in class, I could see the skull over a girl's head. One day she turned toward me as I stared at the skull. She broke my trance. I peered into her green saucer eyes. Life floats on water, said an unbidden voice.
I knelt on the beach by the skull. Brown sand packed one eye socket. The probe of my fingers had hollowed out the other socket. Sunlight glinted from sand particles, now dried, resting on the brow of this gruesome still life.
Am I dead?
I stood up and scanned the landscape. I strained to remember what happened between swimming the sea and finding myself on the beach. Nothing came.
I glanced at the skull. "If there's an afterlife, then someone is missing a head."
_______ ___ _______

"Troy, I am still naked."

• Language: English
• Publisher: R W Jaeger
• Release date: Sep 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463616024

R W Jaeger

Ronald W Jaeger is the man of mystery. Nobody knows why he wears a black gambler's hat. Nobody knows, until now, that his award-winning poems and short stories and three novels all came unbidden. How his writings lead out of the matrix, which dictates what we should think and do, is more of the mystery. Here are the titles of the three novels that belong in your personal library: The Secret of the Bermuda Triangle: The Adventures of Troy as Told by Him [women luv this book] / Sharing a Man [no, it is not a dirty book!] / Next Stop, Heaven [Lena and David search for each other but don't know it]. The light in these books is not religious. Nor is the light an intellectual construct. If religion or the intellect didn't produce these books, what did? You are invited to solve this mystery. These stand-alone novels became the unintended Trilogy of Light. What makes the three books a trilogy is a theme they share: we all have genius, inner light, but we seldom bring it out in creative acts because we have been bludgeoned into conformity. The books themselves are the very expression of nonconformity, which is crucial to breaking out of the matrix. You will be well on your way to solving the mysteries of these novels if you start your read with a question: What do I need to know? After you have forgotten this question, a new and perhaps bold idea may come to you. Here's where you stop reading and jot down the idea. Then it is up to you to give the idea life. If you do this, then you will know how these novels came to be. In your reading of The Secret of the Bermuda Triangle, you may find where Troy hid the secret for how to live on planet Earth. In reading Sharing a Man, you will witness how a man, lost to two women, is resurrected. As for Next Stop, Heaven, here you will take separate journeys with Lena and David, who release their own genius, inner light, into a world that forbids it.

Book preview

Cover.jpg

THE SECRET OF THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE

This book is a work of fiction except possibly for those readers who understand imagination is primal fact.

Copyright © 2009 by Ronald W. Jaeger

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

The author has worked nine years without a steady income to produce this book. He, at last, would like to be paid for his work; hence, we ask that no one participate in the illegal acts of scanning, uploading, and distributing this book, in whole or in part, through the Internet or any other means.

Published by

Austin, Texas

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009902834

ISBN: 978-0-615-29508-4 (print)

Cover illustration: Joseph Fiacco

Ebook design/conversion: Lorie DeWorken 

Manufactured in the United States of America

For all eighteen-year-old men

for all time beyond time....

Table of Contents

THE FIND

My Note to My Reader

PART I: Cast into Adventure

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

PART II: The Inner Light Adventure

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

PART III: Allegiance

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

PART IV: Training

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

PART V: The Chase

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

PART VI: Union

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

PART VII: Innocence

XXXIX

XL

XLI

PART VIII: Rescue

XLII

XLIII

XLIV

PART IX: Poison

XLV

XLVI

XLVII

XLVIII

PART X: Resurrection

XLIX

L

LI

LII

LIII

PART XI: The Gauntlet

LIV

LV

LVI

LVII

PART XII: The Promised Land

LVIII

THE FIND

I discovered the manuscript for this book while digging a hole in my front yard for the purpose of planting a tree. More than a foot beneath the surface my shovel struck a large rock. I dug around this rock, which had more width than depth, and upon dislodging it, I noticed in the soil below a glint from what I guessed to be a piece of metal. On my knees I pulled the rock from the hole and probed the dirt by hand. I felt the ridged cap to a large mason jar. I clawed away dirt from some of the glass. A roll of papers sat inside. I imagined a stash of Confederate currency that would make the ultimate conversation piece on the thick shelf of wood that hung over the fireplace. I finished the dig and pulled the jar from the earth.

Someone I didn’t know walked by with a dog on a leash. Whatchya got there? he asked.

Something for a scavenger hunt, I said.

The man and dog walked on by. I gripped the lid to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. I carried the jar into the house and set it on a spread-out newspaper on the kitchen floor. After tapping around the edge of the metal with the shaft of a large screwdriver, I finally loosened the lid.

I shall forego describing my feelings from holding a manuscript from the past, for you may soon have those same feelings as you read the following story. The manuscript was written in pencil. A page written by a different hand lay on top. That page now appears at the end of the story and should be read last.

When I read the early pages of the manuscript, I thought I held a true story. Later in my reading I thought I held a novel. The next-to-follow note from the author compelled me to type the penciled pages, all of which bore creases from multiple folds. I typed everything just as it appeared on the page. I didn’t even correct misspellings nor the creations of words you won’t find in a dictionary. As you get into the story you will discover why the author would have misspelled a few words. You will also discover why he wrote with short sentences.

The original manuscript presented the story in the form of parts (Part I, Part II) and chapters, but this presentation ended with the thirteenth chapter, which began Part II and ran all the way to the end of the story. I marked subsequent parts and chapters to make the story more readable.

You, like me, will find many elements of the story plausible. Other elements may seem unbelievable. I would be the first person to discard the entire story as a sham if it weren’t for a strange incident. One day the mason jar (with the original manuscript inside) disappeared.

In the late evening of that same day, I received a phone call from an anonymous caller. She informed me that two men in a white car stopped in front of my home. She said she normally wouldn’t have paid any attention, except the men wore solid black suits, unlike the outfit of jeans and shirt worn by most men in these parts. At first she thought the two men might be missionaries. She lingered out of sight. One man left the car and walked to my front door. He pressed the button for the doorbell. When no one answered, he pulled something from his pocket and used it to open the door. He rushed into the house and in less than a minute emerged cradling in his arm a large jar. He walked straight for the car and got in. The car sped away.

I begged the caller for her name and phone number, but she said she was calling from a phone booth and hung up. I considered filing the theft with the Sheriff but decided against it. A wickedness has sought to prevent the publication of this story. As you read it you will learn why.

R.W. Jaeger

Austin, Texas

My Note to My Reader

They called me Troy. I grew up an orphan. In high school I earned good grades. I edited the school newspaper and lettered on the track team. A life of adventure claimed me early and never let me go.

My biggest adventure began in the summer of 1946. I had just graduated from high school and traveled to southern Florida. There I explored the beautiful geography. I supported myself working odd jobs. On a whim I set out for South America by way of the Bahama Islands. When you take the next page, you will find me on the schooner City Belle. It departed from Nassau for the Grand Turks in early December.

This story shall always be mine, but I hereby convey copyright of the story to the one person who initiates publication of my manuscript. I have chosen words to accommodate a spirit. Changing my words to suit a future taste shall stifle the spirit.

Let the spirit speak.

Winter 1948

PART I

Cast into Adventure

I

A crack of thunder confirmed my hunch a storm had swallowed the City Belle. I sat stowaway in the dark hold of the schooner. The vessel bucked and tossed. I landed feetfirst in a crouch on a crate. Something grazed my head. I reached up and blocked tackle swinging from a rafter. The hold listed. My crate slid into a stack of lumber.

I got to get out of here!

I groped around for my backpack. In my search I draped myself over a pile of canvas sacks. A crumple of the contents against my chest told me I had found mail. A fist of the storm slugged the schooner. The cargo and I pitched into a jumble. A crate pinned my legs. Timbers creaked. The schooner rolled. I flew in the darkness. My chest smashed into a rib of the hull. I cursed the storm.

I knelt between two ribs of the City Belle, my forearms up to guard my face. The schooner listed back and forth. The hanging tackle banged the rafters. A splintering scrape came from a scissored action of the lumber. A sharp roll of the ship flung me headfirst into the scissors. I folded my arms on both sides of my head. That saved me from decapitation.

I crawled for the handrail to the hatch. The schooner heaved and smacked my back into overhead rafters. A rogue board whacked me in the stomach. The swinging tackle smashed my shoulder.

The violence of the storm surged. The ship groaned. Lumber snapped. I leaped blind for the handrail but missed. A board jabbed me in the back and flattened me against a wall. Pain throbbed through my body.

I sprang again for the handrail. I found it, pulled myself up the steps, and opened the hatch.

Hard rain pelted my face. I wobbled out onto the slippery deck. The schooner rocked and flung me against the bulwarks. I clutched a cleat at the gunnel. Night had already fallen. Wind ripped through shredded sail. Cold waves boiled over me. I glanced about the ghost of the City Belle. I yelled, Anyone on board? The storm soaked up my shout. My clothes soaked up the storm. I shouted louder.

Did I hear a voice?

The deck slanted to the sea. I thought I saw a hand holding a cleat on the opposite gunnel. I called out again. No answer.

I crawled across deck and looked over the side. Help me, a man pleaded. I wrapped my fingers around his hand on the cleat.

Swing up a leg, I yelled.

The man grabbed my wrist with his other hand. I braced the flat of my free hand against the gunnel.

Swing up a leg!

The ship rolled into the man. He lost his hold on the cleat. I lost my hold on his hand. I grabbed his other wrist in a forearm lock. The press of the man’s body into the water doubled me over the gunnel. The ship bucked and catapulted me into the sea.

The man clutched at me underwater. He grabbed the collar of my shirt from behind. My head bumped against the hull. I rolled into a tuck. My boots struck wood and I pushed off. The man lost his grip. He grabbed me around the legs. I jackknifed and pushed against his shoulders. He held tight. The hull thumped my skull.

Play dead came an unbidden voice.

I played dead. The man pulled himself forward over my body. He left me with a kick to the face.

I pawed along under the schooner. Stale air lunged at my throat. I came to the keel and swam away from it. The underworld tugged at my body.

A do-or-die stroke shot me through the surface of the bestial water. I gulped air. The waves pitched into a pitch black sky. I treaded water a few yards from the City Belle. Its outline blended into the void.

I need to get back on board.

No.

I untied the laces on my boots.

Drop them.

I can sling them around my neck. Land can’t be far away.

I took off a boot, unlaced it down to the first eyelets, and clenched a flap of eyelet leather between my teeth. A swell of the sea slapped me in the face. I took in water and lost my bite on the boot. I sputtered for air. The boot hit my foot on the way down. Water rolled over me. I bobbed to the surface.

Deep breath.

I took a deep breath. My patch of sea dropped away. Surrounding water towered and broke over me. I waited for the air in my lungs to bring me up. I removed my other boot and let it go. The bob to the surface I had expected didn’t come. I swam the darkness. I swam the darkness that offered no up or down. Panicked I altered my course. Again I altered it. I carved out a maze with no channel to the surface. I’m going to drown. I’m not going to drown.

I surfaced with a heave for air. I looked around for the City Belle. She had disappeared.

Remove the trousers.

I slipped off my trousers, zipped them up, and tied the ends of each leg. The process took a lot longer than it did at YMCA water survival training. I held the waistband below the surface of the water and dove underneath to blow air into the pant legs. After they inflated, I gathered the waistband together and cinched it with the belt. I clamped the float under an armpit.

I bobbed in the sea for three more inflatings of my float. The energy of the storm drained.

Drop the trousers.

I’m not giving up my life preserver. I’m tying the pant legs around my waist. Which way do I swim?

This way.

I swam with slow, steady strokes in the direction of this way.

Alone in the ocean I felt no fear. In my early adventures I often plunged into forested Missouri to explore whatever lay in my path. On one foray I came upon a small lake. The forest hugged the perimeter. I climbed a tree and sat out on a mammoth limb that overhung the water. The surface reflected chinks of sunlight. A gust of wind struck the tree. I swayed on the wood. There, for the first time, I thought of traveling on big water.

A sudden drop in the temperature of the sea broke up my reverie. The drag of my clothes in the water had tired me out.

Damn! Trouper damn!

I untied my trousers and almost let them go but checked myself. The money. I pulled my wallet out of the rear pocket and retrieved my life’s savings, $144. I rolled up the bills lengthwise and inserted the roll into the cavity at my butt.

I stripped out of my shirt and let it go. I swam the sea wearing only boxer shorts.

My long journey on water called up my long-distance running on the high school track team. A race always started with everyone in a pack. The pack stretched out by the end of the first half mile of a three-mile course. The leaders thinned out to two or three. Eventually one runner took a solitary lead. He might or might not keep it. I never trailed anyone at the finish line.

This reverie brought me solace as I swam, but I cut away when I visualized crossing the finish line. In track the race often ended at the starting line.

My thoughts drifted into Moby Dick and other novels I had read. Did Captain Ahab, Hawkins, or Natty Bumpo ever feel he pursued not a creature, a treasure, or a destination, but a state of mind? A sound state of mind will withstand all perils along the way, I reasoned. An unencumbered mind will lead a man where he needs to be.

II

I awoke to a prickly sensation at my foot. I rose up on an elbow and received a pain in my shoulder, a reminder of my escape from the hold of the City Belle. I lay on a beach. A crab had scurried off from my move, then held its ground. Other crabs spread about like players on a volleyball team.

Sorry, fellas, I’m not game.

The sun had already cleared the trees that bordered the beach. Clean air delivered a clean beach smell.

I moved into a sitting position, my knees drawn up to my chest. The crabs retreated. One backed off all the way to the water. A jab of pain reminded me where I had put my money. I retrieved the roll of bills but not without another jab of pain. I washed the bills in the ocean and tucked half their length inside the waistband of my blue-and-white striped shorts. This is stupid. I look like a clown. I stroked my chin in search of another way to transport the money that would keep my hands free. A stubble of beard rasped on my fingertips. I’m scruffin’ it, I said to a nearby crab.

I plucked the bills from my shorts, clenched them in one hand, and scanned my surroundings. No buildings in the dense vegetation. No habitations or docks up or down the beach. No vessels on the sea, no planes overhead, no land at the horizon.

A whimsical notion came upon me that I stood in a new world as fresh as Adam. Did Adam ever discover a beach? Whoa, it’s quiet here. A happiness swept over me. A pang clutched my stomach. Where’s Eve and that apple?

I didn’t remember making land. I remembered swimming forever. I remembered how the water suddenly became cold, and I almost altered my course. I had no idea on what island I had landed. My mind held no clear layout of the Bahamas. On my next adventure I’ll do a little homework first.

Under the canopy of a tree I took a leak. The stream bounced off the jagged-edged leaf of a plant I had never seen before. I foraged a stout stick and used it to write LOST in small letters in the sand. Lost in paradise. Is this good or bad?

I need some food.

The crabs still occupied the beach. I approached them. All but two retreated to the ocean.

Which way to the nearest White Castle? I made a motion with the stick to usher up a voice from the crabs. One crab raised a pincer in a back step, then turned sideways and sidled into the water. I trenched a huge arrow in the sand. The head of the arrow aimed in the direction the crab had pointed. I jaunted off.

I ran the wet sand. The waves, more like those of a lake than an ocean, rolled to shore in lazy laps.

My jaunt covered a lot of ground. In track I could cover three miles in less than thirteen minutes. I figured I ran at least that fast because I felt stronger than ever, but I had no way to put my speed to the test. The pure air filled me with a charge. When will I have the chance to race against other men, to really pour it on?

The jungle scenery stayed the same—dense leafy vegetation and tall trees. A large white bird lifted off a tree and flew out to sea. The temperature felt great for running. I recalled the rusty thermometer fastened to the red brick by the back door of my first orphanage. I figured if it hung on a post sunk in the beach, it probably would read 72 degrees. I rested in my pace.

Somebody will pop up soon.

I sat on the beach breathing hard. An eerie perfection pervaded this paradise. The big water still stretched out to a blank horizon. A lazy wave curled to shore. Water skimmed the sand and sank under my feet. Between my feet I noticed an exposed shell. I dug alongside the shell with the heel of my foot. The shell extended far below. Now on my knees, I dug with my fingers. I felt no shell but bone. My fingers probed a cavity and by hooking my fingers into it I pulled the bony structure free. One look and I dropped my find. I scrambled to my feet. There on the sand lay a human skull.

What is this place?

My first and only previous exposure to a human skull occurred in eighth-grade science class. The teacher kept a skull in a large glass cabinet. Every day that skull studied me through scooped-out eyes. From my seat in class, I could see the skull over a girl’s head. One day she turned toward me as I stared at the skull. She broke my trance. I peered into her green saucer eyes. Life floats on water, said an unbidden voice.

During lunchtime that day, life floats on water resurfaced in my mind. I wrote the line on a scrap of paper I tore from my lunch bag. I pondered the line, then tucked the paper away in a pant pocket. That afternoon I ducked into the school library, and at the suggestion of the unbidden voice, I explored books of poetry. I carried home a collection of poems by Robert Frost. Later that night I found nothing in Frost about life floating on water. The next day I read Walt Whitman. The day after that, T. S. Eliot. Then Emily Dickinson, Archibald MacLeish, Edna St. Vincent Millay. I read Whittier and Longfellow. I read Yeats and Keats and Shakespeare’s sonnets. I found nothing about life floating on water.

Future reality, the unbidden voice said.

Someday I’ll understand it, I said to myself.

I knelt on the beach by the skull. Brown sand packed one eye socket. The probe of my fingers had hollowed out the other socket. Sunlight glinted from sand particles, now dried, resting on the brow of the gruesome still life.

Am I dead?

I stood up and scanned the landscape. I strained to remember what happened between swimming the sea and finding myself on the beach. Nothing came.

I glanced at the skull. If there’s an afterlife, then someone is missing a head.

III

I put jogging footprints in the sand. I had left the skull far behind, but the image of the empty eye socket caught up to me. Who was he? Where did he come from? What adventure brought him here? What did he see before he met his doom? Was he a she?

I tried to shake off these questions by looking for seashells. I found none, not even a vacant crab shell. I imagined I ran on a mammoth Hollywood set that had yet to receive a sprinkling of shells. I smiled but felt the smile disappear as I scanned the barren sand.

I came upon a wide stream that cut through the beach. I hopped into the shallow water, dipped a hand, and brought a sample to my mouth. Fresh water. I dropped to my knees and drank hand to mouth.

I bolted backwards onto my butt. A long green snake glided past me on the water. Great, now I have to watch out for snakes.

Back on my feet I looked upstream. There’s bound to be a homestead or a road in there. I followed the path of water. Thick vegetation walled the stream on both sides. Sunlight streaked through towering trees to the undergrowth.

Was Tarzan’s jungle anything like this? I scanned the trees for vines. None. I imagined myself sporting a loincloth and a knife in a leopard-skin scabbard at my waist. The leopard I had killed after it attacked faithful Cheeta. My imagination pulled a pontoon plane out of nowhere and plunked it down on the water. Out popped Jane.

Hey Tarzan, where’s the tree house?

I let out a Tarzan yell.

The stream took a turn and the ocean disappeared from view. The water deepened to my thighs. Up ahead mounds of moss covered fence posts that crossed the stream. My hopes soared.

I waded toward the fence and looked about for other signs of civilization. A return glance to the fence posts gave me a shock. I stopped dead. I had not seen mounds of moss. On top of each post sat a human head. Dried skin wrapped each skull covered by matted hair.

I turned away. A glint in the jungle looked like sunlight striking metal.

I sloshed through water back toward the beach. I kept watch on both sides of the stream. There! A shadow moved in the undergrowth. I broke into a run.

Whoops erupted from the jungle. Water splashed behind me. I didn’t turn around. That would cost me a second or two that might save my life. I bore down on the bend in the stream.

I entered the bend. A savage in loincloth jumped into the water. He held a cutlass and tried to cut me off. I surged past him as he slashed with his weapon. The blade missed my shoulder.

The ocean shone ahead. Another savage leaped from the jungle in front of me. I cut away. His cutlass slashed empty air. My swerve took me close to the edge of the stream. The shallower water there enabled me to rev up my engine.

A third attacker flew at me from the bank. I caught him mid-air and plunged him headfirst into the water. The clump of money went with him. I stumbled to find my footing.

Someone running the water came upon me fast. I sprang into a dash. A good hundred yards separated me from the beach. I gulped salty air. Whoops followed me on the banks. Splashing trailed me close. I gained the beach. Savages fanned out from the jungle and cut off my escape on sand. I plunged into the ocean and swam straight out. One of the wild men took chase in the water.

I thought I had widened the distance between us when a hand grabbed my ankle. I tucked to face my foe. The savage dived. I swam off. He surfaced and slid on top of me. I rolled to break contact. He rolled with me. I wedged my elbow against his chest to pry him loose. I struggled up for air and in that instant the savage wrapped a braided thong around my neck. I snatched a breath before he yanked on the thong.

I grabbed the thong at my throat and squirmed to move it off my windpipe. My attacker wrapped his legs around my waist and tightened his grip. I couldn’t break loose. With my free hand I jabbed a thumb into his eye. The strangulation loosened, I wrenched free.

The savage renewed his attack face to face. I had the advantage in arm length and gripped the savage’s throat in a choke hold. I pressed my thumbs deep into his windpipe. He broke my grip by tucking up his feet and kicking me in the face.

We squared off. His eye bled. Long black hair streamed to his shoulders. The thong hung from his jaw. His tribe whooped in the distance. I moved closer. He dived. I caught him by the hair. He surfaced in a scream. I slugged him in the jaw and snatched the thong from his loosened bite.

The savage dove. I dove after him, thong in my teeth. I grabbed an ankle. He kicked me with his other foot. I grabbed that foot too. I crossed my legs around his in a scissors lock and wrapped his ankles with the thong. He reached down to undo the binding. I grabbed him at the throat. Now he felt my power. My thumbs crushed his windpipe. He clutched at my hands. I deepened the stranglehold.

In the struggle we surfaced. The savage’s head wobbled, then it sagged. I released my grip. The body sank. I dove and retrieved the thong. I surfaced in the near grip of two more predators.

I scuttled away in a backstroke. One of the predators gave chase. I rolled into a crawl and ripped through the water.

I switched into a sidestroke. The savage stayed in the hunt. The tribe trailed on shore.

I turned to face my pursuer. He closed in. Bestiality swam in his eyes. The beast let out a whoop. I let my body drop below the surface and paddled backwards. He dove after me. I lunged and looped the thong around his neck. He grabbed it with both hands. I brought my feet up to his chest and yanked both ends of the thong. The savage rolled. I lost my footed leverage. He scrabbled with his hands. I kept him at bay with my feet and tightened my pull on the thong.

The tension on the thong increased his fury. We thrashed against each other. Our bodies rose to the surface. I gasped for air fouled by the savage’s stench. His hands shot for my throat. I deflected the