Barely two hours into the flight a sputter had developed in the engine. He rode it out for a long while, and at times it would even digress to a sharp flutter. Then after a brief fury of shearing tearing clatter, a fire tore through the engine to the prop, froze the blade and sent the plane into a smoking descent. He took it to the surface of the water while the fire spread backward, licking at his boots through the floor. He slipped from his seat into the water to evade the flames. What was up front would be lost: maps, compass, food and canteen. A compartment at the back of the plane held the raft, as well as a small collection of incidentals which he collected from the burning craft. He paddled the raft and its meager cargo with a collapsible oar; it was too short to use from a fixed central position, and so forced him to shift sides with each stroke, leaning halfway out of the clumsy vessel, brushing his knuckles against the water, back and forth and back and forth until he was a suitable distance from his dying plane and could see the tall column of thick black smoke which seemed to reach to the edge of the sky.

He slid his leather aviator's cap and goggles off his head. His hair was a black crust: a plaster of sweat, hair tonic, and his own wavy locks.

He loosed the collar of his jacket and pulled a white scarf across his neck. It wrung a flood of water over the side and drank deep from his head and neck.

He rubbed the cloth into the hollow of his eye and blinked back against the light.

He ran the crook of his forefinger along the line of his mustache and shook the perspiration gathered into the ocean.

And a wave of anxiety swept over his mind.

And the flat line of the water stretched to the perimeters of his vision.

The bottle of champagne was tied around the neck with a thick red ribbon, and it was REAL French champagne: the first bottle was a cheap sizzling sparkling bottle he'd picked up in a New York liquor store with the intention of crashing it over the breast of his plane like the mayor launching a luxury cruiser, but when the idea came to him to stow the bottle in his plane, to arrive in Paris triumphant and THEN to spring out of the plane and treat some delightful French lovely to a celebration glass of bubbly, THEN he knew that he had to have REAL French champagne so as not to appear an unsophisticated American oaf. He had society friends, who were if not friends then certainly friends-of-friends and nevertheless nothing less than SOCIETY, and they had counseled him on an appropriate vintage for his purposes. They directed him to a quaint yet affable potables shop, where, for no additional charge and as they were accustomed to servicing festive occasions, they would decorate his purchase with a gay red ribbon and a shroud of sparkling cellophane, the latter of which had slipped from the bottle and was now afloat somewhere on the Atlantic.

He brought the broad of his thumb to one of his cigarettes: still damp, he ran it upside-down, leaving its thicker side to the heavy sun.

His tongue cracked dry against the roof of his mouth. He broke the foil hood of the champagne bottle and rocked his thumbs against the base of the ball cork until it EXPLODED out in a plume of rainbow suds, white foam spilled on the floor of the raft. The shock was a long-time-coming: the bottle had survived the crash and spent the remaining time in the constant agitation of the swaying raft, swaying more now under the recoil of the blast. His eyes were locked on the teetering cigarettes as he juggled his weight in an effort to steady the craft, subtle dancing like a tightrope walker while three of the wet cigarettes slipped off the edge into the ocean.

The wine was sharp sweet in his mouth, the bubbles cut into the crisp of his tongue, and he felt maybe thirstier than ever. The bottle seemed pitifully small. He capped the mouth with his thumb.

The plane burned on the edge of the water under a tower of smoke.

And he was afraid.

He took a small tin of matches from the pocket of his jacket and grabbed impatient a cigarette from the edge of the raft. The outside-upside paper was dry but the leaves inside held water. He struck a match with his thumbnail and touched it to the end of the cigarette which felt at home on the round of his lip. He drew tight from the flame and the smoke came alive with hard crackle and big orange pop like a setting sun each time fire found a pocket of wet. There was warm in his chest, musky hot breath at the back of his throat, and he exhaled a white rope of smoke from the circle of his lips. The smoke was cut into wisps by the breeze and drifted away from him.

He leaned back into the raft, took another drag from the cigarette and crackled, and a long pull from the champagne bottle and sloshed and fizzed.

And he wondered how would he die in a raft in the middle of the ocean?

The dead match was still between his fingers; he gave it a sharp flick over the side. It dipped and bounced and bobbed on the water like a little boat.

He was hungry. He thought about the sandwich in the little paper bag that he kept under the seat. He thought about the fire that tore through his plane and caught the bag by the folded edge. He though of a restaurant right near his apartment where they toast the bread when they make your sandwich so that it makes a crunch when you take a bite, and when he comes in they know his name and say Hello to him and pour him a cup of coffee without him even having to ask.

And he was hungry.

And the cigarette went crackle and snapped and the champagne went slosh and fizzed.

There was a light in his head, a levity now to his thoughts that could be the hungry but was probably the wine. He thought maybe to hold off for a while and to put his thumb back over the mouth of the bottle and finish his cigarette and keep a clear head, but the light was BIG and the light was BRIGHT and it felt so good just to THINK IT the way it was.

Because the swaying of the raft felt very nice.

And the sun felt so very warm on his face.

And he smoked from the cigarette and drank from the champagne, and his body went crackle and snapped and his mind went slosh and fizzed.

And the big black smoke from the dying plane made a column of dark that touched the roof of the world.

He looked at his watch: it was still just half past eleven.

He looked out over the ocean: it was still just a flat line of nothing with him in the middle.

And how could he die in a raft in the middle of the ocean?

He took hungry another cigarette from the side of the raft and knocked two more over the edge and cursed himself for a second but after a second didn't really care and even laughed. He struck a match from his tin from his thumbnail and lit POP SNAP his cigarette. The match burned small on the little stick in his fingers and he decided no not to shake it out but let it burn down and watch it fall off into shriveled black skinny wood burnt. It died with a hush and a thread of sidewinder smoke and he answered with another rope of white smoke which looked like a cloud before it died in the breeze.

And why not more slosh fizz from the dying bottle too?

Why not more crackle snap from the new cigarette and he made another cloud in the sky.

And drunk now, the work DRUNK in his head made him laugh:

Hee hee hee.

And little laugh made him laugh big:

Ha ha ha.

And hungry at the bottom of his stomach felt empty felt good:

Gr-rowl.

And song in his head made him happy so sang:

La dum dee da dum da dum.

And how did it go?

The sun fell slow, tired, dropping to sleep on the soft line of the ocean with him in the middle. The sunlight skipped across the water and the ocean was bright white light with deeper sky blue on top. The tower of black smoke stood on the corpse of his plane and cut across the sunlight, long shadow parted the white light ocean and in long shadow lived a nation of waves, tiny in the sun and dancing on legs long of deepest darkness.

And his country was like the ocean: in the sun it shone brightest white full like a lake of solid light, but in the darkness in shadow could be seen the individual waves and blackest black dark darkness so tiny in the sun that catches highlights on the highest highs.

And his country was like the ocean: it was many waves dancing long legs and it was one water solid light flat line stretched to the perimeters of his vision, E pluribus ocean.

And he was not afraid.

Fire struggled to live in the tail of the plane which dangled up from the ocean sinking slowly like the sun. Pushed down drowned by the heavy black tower of smoke it crackled like a wet cigarette and sizzled like REAL French champagne.

The column of black smoke was released from the ocean. It ascended to the sky and became a black cloud under the sun to shine shadow on a nation of waves. Then it rose above the sun and fell into and with the whitest white clouds stretching through bluest sky to orange thick round the sun sinking into the ocean with him in the middle.

And it was half past eleven: hee hee hee.

Setting sun fell orange red lowered his head to the side of the raft and hard slosh slam against lips against bottom of bottle and easy crackle now from cigarette fully dry in setting sun.

And arm felt good draped over the round edge of the raft, water brushing his knuckles. Dancing waves took the bottom of bottle and slipped from lazy fingers, thumb runs neck of bottle, touches soft of bright red ribbon.

And hand felt good on floor of raft sticky where rainbow foam dried in setting sun.

Bottle red wrapped ribbon drifting away.

Bright light dim and cool at the back of his mind drifting away.

Setting sun warm through closed eyelids drifting into cool evening drifting away.

Bright light comes sleep black cloud dream.

Eyes see beyond dark warm nothing black cloud vision.

Fall into black cloud night drift away dream.

Body round in raft fall like black cloud round in water round.

Sink like sun like plane like fire into black cloud ocean.

Sink like fire smoke black cloud sizzle thick tower.

Sink like black cloud burn black smoke stink feeds bright light.

Black cloud hiss feeds bright light.

Black cloud cool round in water round feeds bright light.

Black cloud sizzle rainbow foam slips round fingers grabs cigarette slip from lazy fingers bright light bright feeds consciousness wet awake what wet what water WHAT?

Out of dream came dream and out of sleep came sleep and in the middle of the ocean at the bottom of a raft a hand sunk in warm water and he was wet.

The raft had taken on nearly two inches of water since the cigarette burn penetrated the floor and found the ocean. The sudden up-rush extinguished it immediately in a sloppy sizzle and it floated now in the raft, soaked through to the brown of its leaves.

The fear tore though his brain like a fire. He pressed his thumb hard into the hole, but the water swelled and seeped and licked his boots. His pounding heart poured hot blood behind his eyes as they searched the craft for SOMETHING to stop the leak. He thrashed to his knees, sinking the bottom of the raft and forcing water through the tiny hole, shaking the row of dried cigarettes into water inside and out.

And a white scarf could not stop the flood of water into the sinking craft, nor a leather aviator's cap nor goggles nor leather gloves nor a pocket-watch stopped at half past eleven.

And the bright light and the black cloud could not stop the flood of fear, nor a fog of champagne and cigarettes.

And the sun rested on the flat line of water, red like a ribbon tied round the neck of an empty bottle, drifting away on the dancing waves of the ocean with him in the middle.