text: [Themes: Children's, kid-friendly, fantasy, polynesia]
  
  > describe your surroundings
  You are treading water alone in the ocean as a sudden summer storm drenches your face with sheets of rain. Lightning flashes and sledgehammers of thunder batter your ears as you try to get your bearings. The slightly acrid taste of engine oil mixed with seawater seeps into your mouth and makes you want to constantly spit; the bad taste and the floating debris are the only reminders that there was a ship with a living crew skimming over this water just minutes ago. The rise and fall of the ocean waves all around you limit how far you can see, and the storm blocks out the summer sun like an eclipse.
  
  > look at the debris
  Blown about at random in the storm are bits and broken pieces of the cutter, mostly unrecognizable. The blast must have done a lot of internal damage as well as what it did to the outside of the ship.
  
  You see something at the limit of your vision -- something that looks like a floating crate. And you hear something -- Dad? How could that be? Unless... you're already dead, or dying... "Tim, over here, buddy!"
  
  That's Dad's voice, all right -- you can hear him clearly, even over the deafening storm!
  
  > get on the crate
  There's nothing suitable to enter here.
  
  You see something at the limit of your vision -- something that looks like a floating crate. Despite the fury of the storm, you can hear a voice calling to you. Could it be...? "Tim! Swim to me! Grab ahold of the crate!"
  
  You have no idea how, but it sounds exactly like your father!
  
  You seem to hear a voice crying out, but you can't tell whether it's real or simply a trick of the wind before it's gone.
  
  > Swim to crate
  "Tim, over here!" The call is clearer this time. It's definitely Dad, and you don't spare any more effort wondering whether it's possible or not.
  
  "Dad!" Fatigue is forgotten as you flail through the water towards your father. He's hanging on to one of the crates from the cutter -- this one miraculously intact -- that floats nearby, and he beckons you anxiously with his free hand.
  
  You draw near -- the crate is very close, but you're so tired, and you think you might not make it, and then your father's voice rings clearly in your ears over the shrieks of the other kids at the pool...
  
  You're standing in the warm water of the shallow end of the George Ross Community Center pool, five years old once more. The pool is indoors, so the the excited shouting and shrieking from all the other kids echo back and forth into a neverending high-pitched background noise. The air is thick with humidity and the itchy smell of chlorine.
  
  Dad is crouching in the water, just a step or two beyond where the bottom of the pool starts to slope down into the deep end. His arms are outstretched, and there's an excited smile on his face. "Swim with your hands and kick with your feet at the same time, Tim! You can do it!" You're pretty scared, and really tired from all the swimming and playing earlier in the day, but maybe you can do this after all...
  
  > Swim to Dad
  You start towards Dad, but it's too scary and you flail backwards to the safety of the shallow end, spluttering as cold, yucky-tasting water floods your mouth and nose.
  
  Cold?
  
  "Good try, Tim! You were doing it! Try once more and you'll make it!"
  
  > About yourself
  . You're wearing your Spider-man swim trunks and standing up to your armpits in warm pool water. You're once again five and a half years old and just under four feet tall.
  
  > look at Dad
  Dad is much taller than you -- maybe even six feet tall -- with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a slightly lopsided smile. He's wearing bright rainbow-colored swim trunks and is crouching in the water a few steps into the deep end of the pool.
  
  > Swim to Dad
  You try to work up your courage for another attempt, but the memory of slipping underwater is too frightening. You're about to call out to Dad and tell him you can't do it, when you see a young dark-skinned boy about your age wade out to the drop-off. Who is he? He looks very familiar, but you know he's not in your kindergarten class. Maybe one of the other classes...
  
  He turns to look directly at you, and something about the look in his eyes gives you a calm sense of confidence. He turns away, crouches, pushes with his legs, and he's off, a fish flitting to the far end of the pool without a backwards glance.
  
  As you watch him, you can feel a new determination -- if that boy can do it, you can too. You turn, look at Dad, crouch down, and push forward, kicking your tired legs with new strength and moving your arms the right way -- you think it's the right way, at least. You keep going, trying to remember to breathe properly, until your hand pokes into Dad's stomach and he pulls you up out of the water with a huge smile on his face. He twirls you around, shouting "You did it! You did it!" as he gathers you into a great big hug...
  
  "I pai ai! You're alive!" Somehow you're hanging onto the crate near Eruera. Of course it couldn't have been Dad; what were you thinking? Something's wrong, though. Eruera winces as he shifts his grip on the crate, breath hissing and eyes narrowing. Then it passes, and he continues, shouting to be heard over the raging storm.
  
  "We may be alive, Tim, but we won't stay alive unless we can get to shore. And I think I broke my leg when the missile hit -- I was almost over the railing, but not quite. I felt my left leg crunch below the knee, and it hurts very badly to move it at all, let alone kick." He smiles almost apologetically. "I don't know how much help I'm going to be moving this thing."
  
  Missile? Was that what sank the ship?
  
  You are floating holding onto a crate in what seems like the dead center of the storm. Eruera is beside you, grimacing with pain and taking shallow breaths as he holds on as well. The wind shoves the crate around where it will, dragging you along in its wake. You might be able to influence its direction, but your legs are really tired and you're not sure you have the strength.
  
  Thunder crashes as the storm rolls on.
  
  > talk to Eruera
  "Eruera," you start. "How are you doing?"
  
  He coughs, his arms tightening convulsively on the crate. "Need to get to shore! Won't last much longer..."
  
  He seems to lose focus on the rest of what you were saying.
  
  You seem to hear a voice crying out, but you can't tell whether it's real or simply a trick of the wind before it's gone.
  
  > listen
  The wind does its best to carry Eruera's few words away, and mostly succeeds.
  
  You can't help wondering whether you're going to live through this. You fight down a rising sense of panic.