I see a blur of red bobbing in the horizon. I'm sitting, alone, in a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Supplies are dangerously low. How hard is it to catch a sea gull? Can you eat a sea gull? I've read people drink their own urine in survival situations.

I haven't peed in two days.

None of this would have happened if not for our summer family vacation.

We had a good laugh when we pulled up to the broken-down beach house and read the little driftwood sign posted on the porch: A Change in Latitude. Yes, we agreed, this is exactly what we need: booming fireworks and melting ice cream cones. We need sand so hot it burns our feet and cool, foamy salt water to soothe. To sit side by side in low-seated beach chairs, the tide running up our legs while the kids jump in the surf.

Neither of us said it, but we both knew we needed some repositioning to be a family again.

But the kids don't sleep well away from their own beds. I woke up early with them and walked on the beach at low tide. Yes, I said, that shell is beautiful. No, let's leave the broken ones. No, leave that there. Don't pick up trash.

He slept in.

I cleaned sand from diapers and soothed the tops of ears and hairlines where I forgot to rub sunscreen. He took long sandy walks to the pier and stood on the edge. He needed time, he said, to think.

I yanked two toddlers through a crowded gift shop that sold live Mickey-painted hermit crabs and cheap T-shirts with "Off Duty Mermaid" written on the front. I cut up hot dogs using a plastic knife and fork.

When I see the speck of red in the distance, I tell myself it is just a mirage. I don't know how long I've been trapped out here—a week? Two? When stranded at sea, the line between mirage and hallucination is as thin as the horizon.

The sun is relentless out in the middle of the ocean. If I packed sun screen in my beach bag, it hardly matters now. I lost the beach bag days ago. I've given up even the illusion of safety—it's a mainland idea, anyway. The surf carries me closer to the red dot until it is no longer just a speck of red amidst an endless blue.

It is another life raft.

My dinghy approaches his and we make eye contact. I groan. No avoiding him now. The rubber lips of our boats squeak and kiss. He is red, sunburned, lips crusted in salt.

"Oh," I say. "Hi."

He gives me the same smile he gives his mother when she nags that he doesn't call her often enough. His teeth are pearly clam shells, and if I look at him from the wrong angle the sun's reflection blinds me.

"Hey," he says and reaches out a lazy hand. I stretch across the inflation tube but I can't reach him. He looks out at the horizon and lets his hand fall, palm up like an invitation. If only I could make my arms longer, add inches to bone and skin, we would connect. "It is beautiful here," he says. "Restful. God, I needed this."

If I had a paddle, I'd nail him in the head with it. The water pulls us away from one another and then bumps us back together. "Having a good day?" he asks.

I read, once, that the most distant part of the sea from land, closest to the horizon, is called the offing. A sea gull screams above us; starving, I track its flight. The offing is beyond anchoring ground.

"Sure," I answer. "It's been fine." I shrug like I'm not trapped in a life boat in the middle of the ocean.

"Good," he replies like he isn't in the exact same situation as me. "Did you get the kids down for their nap?"

I nod. "They're asleep, upstairs." I resist the urge to add, finally.

"Good," he says again.

"Yes," I say, quiet. The current catches my boat and I slip further out to sea. "Good."

Brianne M. Kohl has stories in Catapult, Bending Genres and others. She lives in North Carolina.

"A Change in Latitude" is the winner of the Mythic Picnic Prize in Fiction.

Read her postcard.

Detail of art on main page courtesy of Fiona Paton.

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