Translations available

Marooned in Mozambique

The sun has set, we have been paragliding most of a day and none of us wants it to end. I haven’t even thought about landing, I want to fly until I cannot see. We are still a long way from where the dinghy should be and I’m hoping it is just the light that robs us of the view. But in my gut I know we are screwed. Marooned.

I feel like I’ve been chewing on cotton. My lips are cracked, my hips are sore, and I look again to the east, hoping for the grayness of dawn to arrive.

We have no food and our only jug of water has been contaminated with ocean and sand. I am huddled down with seven other people in a bed made of two nylon paragliders. The fabric becomes an alarm clock every time we are blasted by wind or when one of us struggles to find a new spot to lie on, seeking to relieve our aching bodies from the hard sand.

If I had a watch I would check it for the thousandth time. The blanket of night refuses to lift. I try not to think about water and cuss silently to myself for orchestrating this mess. My body begs for sleep but my mind stammers off again, reconstructing how we ended up stuck here.

We are marooned on an island off the coast of Mozambique. Our boat, Discovery, is anchored several miles away and our guest chef, my good friend Ezra whom I hadn’t seen in ten years before this trip, is the only one on board. He knows we are out here, but there’s nothing he can do. The boat might as well be on Mars for the distance cannot be crossed.

Get free access to
all stories.

Enter your email address,
and get an instant sign-in link.

Already have an account? Sign in

Essential cookies only.

We only use cookies that are necessary for signing in and hiding this notification. Nothing more. We do not track you using cookies.