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"Try a spinner?"
"They don't want that, either."
I looked over the side. The fish shimmered. They came close to the surface, looked us in the face and as good as thumbed their noses.
Four days since Bill's birthday, his 60th. We had celebrated with two of his homemade dried fruit rolls, the last of our picnic lunch. Three and a half days without food and five before that of rationed nibbles, but I still felt no hunger. Hardly even emptiness anymore.
"You know the one food that sounds good to me?" I said.
"Chateaubriand?" he said.
"Raw fish." I was serious. "Without the soy sauce. Makes you too thirsty."
"I'll take the Chateaubriand. And a milkshake."
We were talking too much. If we talked too much we would lose precious moisture from our mouths.
The fish refused to provide us with a feast, and the calm, glorious as it was, wasn't getting us ashore. We kept the still running throughout the afternoon. It occurred to us that we wouldn't perspire if we were in the water, so we took turns stripping and dipping into the sea, although I could hardly swim. Bill could swim, though. At first I was afraid he would glide away gracefully, doing the breaststroke, and not come back, but he seemed lucid this afternoon. I would cling to the Lazy's side, almost shocked to see her from the water. It was the first new perspective I'd had in nine days.