Fighting for Life

"You can have it," the man in front of Ryder said, solemnly, resigned to his fate. "You deserve it."

Ryder looked at the man's bloodied nose, steadily streaming red mucus, and his lank hair, hanging down over his face. He was poorly dressed and would be referred to as "unkempt" by his mother. Not quite a hobo but not far off. The man would not look him in the eye which was curious as moments before, he had been glaring at Ryder as he'd gripped his shirtfront, his eyes wide, bulging with fury, as he spat his angry, defensive words into Ryder's face.

They'd come to blows shortly after, Ryder surprising himself with his violence towards this man as he'd hit out blindly. Ryder had never fought before. Never had the need. If his spittle hadn't hit my face, I probably wouldn't have struck out.

That had been the last straw for Ryder. The man's lack of control as he raged in his face had been intimidating and Ryder could feel himself backing off from this show of aggression. He could smell alcohol and cigarettes on the man's breath and onion, a meaty smell, like a pie - his dinner probably. It was when his spittle, forced from his mouth by his fierceness, hit his face that Ryder's own red mist had started to rise mixed with disgust.

Without thinking, he'd raised his fist and punched the man solidly in the nose. The man had released his grip on Ryder's shirt as he'd fallen back, heavily, the shock and momentum from the blow leaving him reeling.

The will to live is a powerful thing and it had only taken a moment for the man to regain his composure before he'd scrambled to his feet and charged towards Ryder, a shout of indignation forced from him as he connected with Ryder's midriff.

But Ryder was angry himself by now, livid in fact, and his adrenaline meant that he was ready for the assault and met it with further blows. Ryder knew by the way that they landed and the soft expulsions of air and groans from his opponent that his punches were hurting the man deeply.

The exchange took place over moments which was still more time than they both had to spare as the boat, named the Angola, they were both on, was sinking. Theirs was not the only altercation taking place over spaces in lifeboats. Chivalry, the weight of status and decorum had dissipated very shortly after the almighty wrenching of the ship's hull crunching rock had interrupted the dinner service.

Despite the announcement over the tannoy not to panic, instinct and intuition could not be persuaded that all was fine when the boat started to list to the side. People pushed back their chairs, dropping napkins as glasses and plates fell and clanged, smashing into pieces, and the noise of their shattering was joined by screams and shouts as diners propelled themselves to a place where they could see the sky above them, rather than stay in what would become a watery vault.

The blessing of sky above however was very much offset by water below and its steady rise towards them all.

Ryder was panting with the effort of his violent exertions and was trying to regain some semblance of composure. He stood up straight and pulled his shirt down and in doing so, he suddenly felt completely defeated, despite being the winner in this battle. He became aware of the turmoil around him which had been put out of focus by the fight, a barely heard soundtrack accompanying their fracas.

Water was gushing across the deck. Lifeboats were being filled and were departing, sailing away from the wreckage. Angry, frightened people were everywhere, moving in panic, erratically, like ants in a disturbed nest. The ship was groaning, like a wounded beast as it slowly succumbed to the ocean's insidious presence.

It was not a time to get philosophical but Ryder looked at the pitiable figure of this man before him and in that split second decided to give his seat away.

Ryder didn't deserve it anymore than this man, even if he had won a fight for it, even if he held a greater place in society, a place which decreed that he was entitled to the space more than this, this whatever he was. Worker?

"It's yours," Ryder found himself saying, and then added, "Sorry about your nose."

The man's head jerked up in surprise and with no word of thanks or pause, leapt towards the lifeboat and marvelled at his good fortune and the posh bloke's stupidity.

Ryder looked back at the man now sat in the seat of his salvation. The man held his gaze, a sneer marking his face. But Ryder felt no rage. In fact, he felt remarkably calm, almost like he was in a world made of treacle, the manic events around him separate to him completely, himself an observer to the chaos of others.

The man watched his saviour look at him until Ryder decided to turn away. It took all his effort to resist the temptation to jeer. After all, he was safe. Did he think he was being noble? the man thought to himself. Posh nob. He would not drown today. He'd live to fight again! Foolish fucker!

It was as the boat moved sharply to the right, eliciting more sharp screams from its present passengers, that Ryder realised the urgency of his situation and broke out of his reverie. Lifeboat spaces were limited but still available.

Time however was encroaching on the ability to get one, willed on by water's insistence on acquiring the boat and sending it deep down below its surface.

An elderly lady was struggling to get into a lifeboat, panicked people behind, urging her forward with their words and their hands. Her uncertainty fell as tears as she tried to enter the boat, fear from all sides rendering her incapable. She knew the fragility of her bones. Could she make it in?

The rudeness of people's survival instincts threatened to drive her face forward until she felt a steadying arm on hers and a voice, resonating with authority, telling those behind her to "Back off! Have some respect!"

Turning to the voice, she saw a young man with blood on his shirt stood next to her and with his assistance, she was able to secure her footing in the heavily swaying boat and dive for a seat. She looked up to thank him but he was gone, crowded out by the desperate, streaming, like rats into the soon to be full boat.

An unlikely angel, she thought but that's what he'd been to her. She raised a prayer to God for sending someone to help her and ardently hoped that the young man would be okay.

Ryder's feet were wet. His sodden socks felt strange in his shoes, heavy like stones. He drifted across the deck amongst the melée, helping where he could, bringing a presence of calm with whoever he interacted that night.

Many people beyond that night who were lucky to survive talked of the Angola's Angel, the steadying arm and the supportive guidance offered by a stranger. They talked of a man dressed in white (no blood mentioned) who came up to them and assisted but then steadily drifted away, onwards to help someone else, they presumed. There was no more description of him than that - the man in white.

On the Angola, the boat was steadily becoming less as the water claimed it for its own. It was like a moon surrounded by satellites in a night sky, as the lifeboats were dotted around it, far enough away to feel safe but close enough to view the macabre spectacle as the disaster continued to play out.

There were no more lifeboats to be filled. There were no more lifeboats.

It was only a matter of time now. Ryder watched as people who were left tried to scramble for the high point. He helped to give a leg up to some and when they offered a hand, he shook his head, not wanting to take the space for himself.

"You're mad, man!" one of them shouted. "Take my hand, for Christ's sake!" But Ryder realised the futility of it all and merely turned to help someone else, taking heart from providing some warmth to a fellow human in what would probably be their last hours. For some reason, this filled him in a way that saving his own life by sitting in a lifeboat would not.

It was a quiet miracle, if indeed it was a miracle at all: of a man turning away from what he has towards what he could have instead.

He felt like this was his finest moment, a face-to-face encounter with the meaning of life, of what it was all about and now, his role as an instrument to enable the continuance of it for others. Wealth meant nothing in the face of this. He thought about the years he had spent prior to this, accumulating and gathering money and the showings of it in material items and felt scorched by the reality of how completely pointless this had been. His life had been a joke, a concept given to him by society about where worth lied which he had bought into and never questioned.

Water was licking his knees, the bottom of his very expensive tailored trousers billowing as water played with the material. He was tempted to laugh loudly but was conscious that he would be adding madness to an already mad situation.

The man who had tried to give him a hand up observed Ryder from where he was sat on his high point. Why doesn't he want to save himself? he thought. Why doesn't he climb up here and give himself a chance? He watched as Ryder continued to help people to higher ground, his trousers ballooning out comically as the water rose and soaked them.

He couldn't look at the stranger anymore. For some reason, he felt an overwhelming sadness that threatened to weigh him more than the fear of losing his life to the ocean. It wasn't that he was pitiable. It was the solid grace with which he held himself, a composure that was at odds with the situation, like the hub around which all stabilised as it spun in dizzying fashion. Ryder was also unbearable to watch, a pathos suffusing the man on his perch as he watched Ryder be the "better man", albeit the more foolish one.

Eventually, he turned his head away and gazed out across the wide expanse of sea. Little lights bobbing. All the lifeboats, filled with folks just waiting for rescue.

There wasn't a lot of his perch left. He closed his eyes and blinked back tears. This was not the way he expected to go. Please let me survive, he whispered to himself, a refrain echoed by many as they waited to see what Fate had laid out for them.

He kept his eyes closed until he noticed that the boat was rocking more noticeably. Not much, but there was a swell, a wave movement, which was causing more motion. His eyes shot open and he looked around him for its source. And then there were shouts. His first thought was What now? but the noise from others was not drawn from fright. It felt enthusiastic, hopeful.

He scanned the horizon. Was that a bigger light, a brighter light?

Suddenly, the man on his perch was struck by the notion that it didn't matter if he survived tonight but if anyone deserved to be saved, it was the man who helped him. He looked down to see if he was still there, the strange man who would not help himself and he was! He was up to his thighs in water but he was there!

He turned away from Ryder to scan the horizon and listened as more and more shouts were released by the other passengers, exclamations of pleasant surprise into the night air. And then he saw it and he shouted himself. It was a boat, another boat! A boat floating, no, powering its way towards them.

They were going to be saved!

This was news that had to be shared.

Ryder could hear the shouts and tried to focus on them rather than the cold which was penetrating his legs and the shivers that were threatening to erupt with every breath he took in. He was so cold. So cold.

"Hey!"

Ryder wondered if this is what it would feel like to be encased in ice. He couldn't feel his feet. Did he still have feet?

"Hey!"

Ryder could hear someone shouting. Perhaps he should climb higher. But he couldn't feel his feet.

"Hey! You! Down there!"

Finally, the shout directed from the man on his perch permeated Ryder's consciousness. He lifted his eyes to where the man was waving at him.

"Hey! I can see a boat! I can see a boat!"

"What?" he replied, softly, in disbelief.

"A boat. I can see a boat! A big boat! A bigger boat!"

Could this be true? Suddenly, Ryder was powered by a surge of optimism and with all the energy he had left and the numbness in his feet, which threatened to topple him, he leapt for a higher part of the boat, a desperation to escape released in him, like a crack in a dam finally caving, and he scrambled, grasping and panting to get high, to see for himself, to see a boat coming to rescue them!

And there it was. Coming ever closer and the cheers as more and more people realised were growing and the night air was changing into something warmer just as a result of increased hope and Ryder felt awash with relief, a relief that he had been suppressing, a relief that he had not allowed himself to even hope to feel and tears came, hot and heavy and laden with release as the man on the perch reached for him and clutched him to him and felt the strange man who helped others but not himself heave in his arms, sobbing like a child as the form of rescue boat became solid and real and safety was tangible.