Page 103 of Gin & Trouble

Using the last of my strength, I thrashed in the water trying to find the source of the voice.

Between the wreckage and the waves, I didn’t see the small fishing boat until it nearly ran me over. Before I could make sense of what was happening, someone pulled me out of the water.

An older man and a small boy stared down at me as if weighing my odds of survival. The boy nodded and threw a stiff blanket over me.

“My friend is missing. Find him.” I’d spoken half in English, half in Italian. Not that it mattered, my chattering teeth and raw throat I’d barely gotten the words out.

They replied in a dialect I could barely understand.

Please, God, let them speak Sicilian.

“Mio maritu.” I pointed toward the horizon. While Dante wasn’t even my fiancé, I figuredhusbandwould carry more weight thanfriend.

They stared with worried expressions.

“Mio…maritu, Dante.” I choked back a sob. “Dante is in the water.Nel mare.”

The boy leaped up, pointed and shouted something in the foreign dialect. The father scanned the water and shook his head, but the kid wouldn’t let up. He shouted, and whined, and pulled on his dad’s sleeve.

Propping myself upright, I followed the boy’s gaze to an orange life vest and what appeared to be a body bobbing in the water.

Dante.

Without thinking, I dove off the boat and paddled in his direction, but when I reached him I couldn’t understand what I saw, or maybe I didn’t want to.

Dante’s normally olive complexion had paled to a sallow color and his face had gone slack.

I pressed my fingers to his neck, but couldn’t find a pulse. Trying again, I pushed harder and thought I feltsomething.

The will to fight that I’d been missing while floating alone roared to life inside me. I would not let him die. “Aiutalo. Help him,” I begged.

The old man navigated close enough to grab Dante’s right arm, and the boy took his other arm. Together, they managed to pull his lifeless body into the boat.

Exhausted and on the brink of hysteria, I grappled for their waiting hands. Once on board, I pressed my cheek against Dante’s chest in hopes of hearing his heartbeat.

No, no, no. He’s not breathing.

I don’t know where I found the strength or the presence of mind to act, but something inside me rose to the surface. Scooting to the edge of the boat, I came up on my knees and gave him two rescue breaths.

Nothing happened.

The old man opened the throttle and sped for the shore, but I feared we were too late.

The boy knelt beside me, motioned to Dante, and mimicked chest compressions.

Once again, I lifted Dante’s chin to open his airway. Pinching his nose, I blew a steady breath into his mouth until his chest rose.

Sliding my fingers to his neck, I checked for his pulse again. It was there, weak, but there.

I leaned in to listen and watch for signs of breath.

Nothing.

The boat lurched forward, likely propelled forward by a wave, and the boy and I toppled.

Once back on my knees, I blew into Dante’s mouth again. This time, his stomach distended.

“Come on, Dante. Please, don’t leave me.” I repositioned his head and prepared to blow again.

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