hands were sprawled out on the sand. She knelt and touched one and flinched with the cold. His skin was white and clammy—how long had he been in the water?
She touched his neck.
A pulse! Alive!
She hauled him over—no mean feat by itself—so he lay on his side rather than face down. She was frantically trying to clear sand from mouth and nostrils. She had her ear against his mouth.
He was breathing. She could hear it. She unclipped his lifejacket and she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest.
There was so much sand. His face was impossibly caked. Wiping was never going to get rid of that sand.
He’d be sucking it into his lungs.
She hauled off her raincoat and headed into the waves, stooping to scoop water into the plastic. That was a risk by itself because the waves were fierce. She backed up fast, up the beach to where he lay, then placed her back to the wind and oozed the water carefully around his face. She was trying to rid him of the caked sand. How much had he already breathed?
Why was he unconscious? That hit on the head? Near drowning? With his mouth clear, she put her mouth against his and breathed for him. It wouldn’t hurt to help him, to get more oxygen in, to keep that raspy breathing going.
His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, more surely now that she was breathing with him.
She kept on breathing while the sleet slashed from all sides, while the wind howled and while wet sand cut into her face and hands, every part of her that was exposed.
What to do? The tide was coming in. In an hour, probably less, this beach would be under water.
She thought of the trolley, but to pull it on a sandy beach was impossible. This man must be six foot three or four and strongly built. She was five foot six and no wimp, but she was no match for this guy’s size.
How to move him? She couldn’t.
‘Please,’ she pleaded out loud, and she didn’t even know what she was pleading for.
But as if he’d heard, his body shifted. He opened his eyes and stared up at her.
Deep, grey eyes. Wounded eyes. She’d seen pain before and this man had it in spades.
‘You’re safe,’ she said, keeping her voice low and calm. Nurse reassuring patient. Nurse telling lies? ‘You’re okay. Relax.’
‘Jake...’ he muttered.
‘Is that your name?’
‘No, Ben. But Jake...’
‘I’m Mary and we can worry about Jake when we’re off the beach,’ she said, still in the reassuring tone she’d honed with years of district nursing. ‘I’m here to help. Ben, the tide’s coming in and we need to move. Can you wiggle your toes?’
She could see him think about it. Concentrate.
His feet moved. Praise be. She wasn’t coping with paraplegia—or worse.
She should be factoring in risks. She should have him on a rigid board with a neck brace in case of spinal injury.
There wasn’t time. Survival meant they had to move.
‘Now your legs,’ she said, and one leg moved. The other shifted a little and then didn’t. She could see pain wash over his face.
‘That’s great,’ she said, even though it wasn’t. ‘We have one good leg and one that’s sore. Now fingers and arms.’
‘I can’t feel ’em.’
‘That’s because you’re cold. Try.’
He tried and they moved.
‘Good. Take a breather now. We have a little time.’ Like five minutes. Waves were already reaching his feet.
He had a slash across his face. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze but it looked like it had bled profusely.
Head injury. He needed X-rays. If he had intracranial bleeding...
Don’t even go there.
Priorities. She had a patient with an injured leg and blood loss and shock. The tide was coming in. There was time for nothing but getting him off the beach.
The sand and sleet were slapping her face, making her gasp. She was having trouble breathing herself.
Think.
Injured leg. She had no time—or sight—to assess it. The slashing sand was blinding.
Splint.
Walking-stick.
She made to rise but his hand came out and caught her. He held her arm, with surprising strength.
‘Don’t leave me.’ It was a gasp.
She understood. She looked at the ripped lifejacket and then she looked out at the mountainous sea.
This guy must be one of the yachties they’d been talking about on the radio this morning. A yacht race—the Ultraswift Round the World Challenge—had been caught unprepared. The cyclone warning had had the fleet running for cover to Auckland but the storm had veered unexpectedly, catching them in its midst.
At dawn the broadcasters had already been talking about capsizes and deaths. Heroic rescues. Tragedy.
Now the storm had turned towards her island. It must have swept Ben before it. He’d somehow been swept onto Hideaway, but to safety?
Would this be as bad as the storm got, or would the cyclone hit them square on? With no radio contact she had to assume the worst.
She had to get him off this beach.
‘I’m not leaving you,’ she said, and heaven only knew the effort it cost to keep the panic from her voice. ‘I’m walking up the beach to find you a walking-stick. Then I’m coming back to help you to safety. I know you can’t see me clearly right now but I’m five feet six inches tall and even though I play roller derby like a champion, I can’t carry you. You need a stick.’
‘Roller derby,’ he said faintly.
‘My team name is Smash ’em Mary,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to mess with me.’
‘Smash ’em Mary?’ It was a ragged whisper but she was satisfied. She’d done what she’d intended. She’d made him think of something apart from drama and tragedy.
‘I’ll invite you to a game some time,’ she told him. ‘But not today. Bite on a bullet, big boy, while I fetch you a walking-stick.’
‘I don’t need a walking-stick.’
‘Yeah, you can get up and hike right up the beach without even a wince,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so. Lie still and think of nothing
