The Battle As Old As Time

George Luke knew a thing or two about survival. He could dig a snow hole with an entrenching tool that would keep him alive in subzero temperatures for days. He knew how to use a condom to carry two litres of water. George had survived a military exercise in the desert in part because he knew which insects were edible and how to find and catch them. All of which was fine and dandy, but not a lot of damn use, stuck, as he was, on a coral atoll somewhere in the middle of the Pacific ocean.

George had been thrown clear after the plane he was on had crashed into the shallow lagoon water. He must have been unconscious for a short time. There had been a fire but no explosion. The life vest George was wearing had evidently inflated automatically on contact with the water, which had kept him alive by keeping his head out of the water. George came to as the burning aircraft had settled further into the water, extinguishing the flame and leaving the plane almost entirely submerged in the shallow, green water.

Scrambling out of the water onto the low-lying island at the centre of the lagoon, George had gone into the survival mode his military training had given him. That he had many problems was evident, but there was no point now in worrying about those he could do nothing about – like the fact that his plane had crashed. The aircraft's flying days were obviously over: Tough luck, George, get on with it. What he did need to worry about, and soon, was shelter, water, and food. Oh, and sharks. Because there were sharks in the lagoon, and they were looking for food.

The sand George sat on was the pale pinks of finely ground corals. A disengaged part of George's mind noted that this was a beautiful place, the sort of location a fancy resort hotel would take you to by speedboat and leave you and your significant other with a picnic and suchlike. All very lovely, not the situation George was in today. He adjusted the shirt he had fashioned into a makeshift sling to support his almost certainly broken arm.

George started a mental 'credits and debits' list in his head. On the credit side, he was alive and not bleeding, as far as he was aware, with no burns, although the sun was going to cause him a problem soon unless he got some shade. Before the aircraft came down, George could remember the co-pilot giving detailed information on their emergency and location, so it was likely that help was already on the way. Still, it would be by ship, and that could be days or even a week or more away.

George had a locator beacon attached to his lifejacket webbing, but he knew it was line-of-sight only. It would help rescuers hone in on him, but only when they were already within 20 or so miles. He could not activate it until then, and he had to remain capable of switching it on when the time came.

He had the obligatory light and whistle on the opposite side of the jacket – as much use, here, as a bowtie and dress shoes. He also had a three-shot flare pistol. Luckily, George had his multi-bladed knife on his waistband.

On the debit side of the balance, George had no shelter – just this tiny, featureless coral atoll, not even a decent-sized rock on it. He had no water and no food.

People often think that a lack of water is the most significant risk and it is a killer, for sure, but actually, a lack of shelter is often a more immediate problem. If you are exposed to the elements without cover, be that heat or cold, especially with wind or rain thrown in, you could be dead long before the lack of water killed you. George needed to be able to get out of the sun.

Water was the next priority. George knew he could be losing three or four pints of water an hour just from sweating, and that was exacerbated by being in the direct sunlight. He'd be OK for a day, probably, but two or three days in, he'd be in real trouble if he could not source fresh water to drink.

Food would also be excellent. Most healthy adults can survive a week with no food quite readily, although it reduces their energy and alertness, leaves them weaker and so forth. But it's not fatal for most people – just miserable.

Other nice-to-have items would be fishing line and hooks, a light source, a method of heating and cooking food, some shark repellent, a boat, a short wave radio, some pleasant company…it was a long list, which George knew he was unlikely to complete.

The lagoon water seemed only to be 5-7 ft deep, and George figured he could mainly wade to the downed plane were it not for the sharks. Although damaged and with both wings snapped off, the cabin seemed pretty intact, so there was a good chance that some of the contents would be salvageable. It looked like the sharks could not get to the bodies of the pilot and the co-pilot, whom George could see, were still strapped into their seats, but doubtless, smaller fish were entering the cabin. The sharks were just circling, no doubt attracted by the blood in the water (sharks can detect a drop of blood in the ocean from miles away).

George readied himself and slipped into the water. He needed to get as close to the stricken aircraft as he could before the sharks took any notice of him. This trip had to be about shelter – the next trip could deliver water and food.

About halfway to the plane, the first sharks seemed to notice George. Sharks have sensory organs that humans lack. They can sense pressure changes, which works a little like the echolocation that bats use, but in water. It helps the shark orient itself and maps what else is around. Also, sharks can sense electrical activity of the type generated in the body of every animal, bird or fish. In combination, these senses mean the shark can feel when there is something new in their environment and can rapidly ascertain if it is animate or not. George was still moving, now only feet from the broken wing-stub, but one of the sharks had turned and was closing in. Next would likely be a test bite to gauge if this was something good to eat, and it might be all over for George.

George pressed the nozzle of his lifejacket's compressed air bottle, and the container fired a stream of high-pressure bubbles towards the shark. The shark immediately sheered off. George seized the moment to haul himself one-handed into the wing. He then clambered into the plane through the missing window. He'd made it! But the blast of bubbles had depleted the tank of compressed air: That trick wouldn't work twice.

Rooting around underwater in the fuselage, George found the vessel's damaged inflatable life raft. It would make an excellent tent to keep the sun off George, plus he could probably use it to catch some rainwater if the opportunity presented itself. There were also four oars with hinged paddles and shafts, so they folded down – they could be makeshift tent poles.

George piled his bounty on the roof of the aircraft. Tucked into a pocket in the life raft was a helpful first aid kit.

George clambered carefully out of the hole in the aircraft roof and set about securing this treasure. With only one working arm, George could not manage to carry more than this. He tucked the fold-up oars into his life jacket webbing and tied the deflated raft around his waist.

George slid back into the water, down to the wing stub. He then jumped down until he was again up to his neck in the lagoon. He had the flare pistol in his hand, ready if he needed to fend of a curious and hungry shark or two.

Only halfway back to the beach, a shark started heading for him. The shark tried to swim behind George. Not knowing if you are good to eat, they will try to find out with a trial bite. They may not like you, but it may cost you an arm and a leg for them to find that out.

George turned slowly, keeping the shark in his vision the whole time, and the shark kept circling. George was trying still to inch towards the beach, and it looked for a minute as though he might make it when two more sharks got interested and started swimming towards him.

The shark in front of George rolled as it turned, exposing its softer white underbelly, and George pulled the trigger on the flare gun. The flare shot out and lodged in the skin of the shark's underside, causing the shark to move very quickly away, but it was also streaming blood. The other two sharks immediately lost interest in George and took off after the injured shark in a blood craze.

Not stopping to see what happened next, George headed for the tiny island, leaving the thrashing sharks behind him. By the time he was safe on the coral beach, the water in the lagoon was red, and five or six sharks were feasting on the shark he had injured. It was over very quickly, and the water began to settle again. George could see smaller fish scavenging in the shallow water for anything left by their bigger cousins.

After using three oars plus the deflated raft to make a tent, George dry-swallowed a painkiller from the First Aid pack and gratefully lay back in the shade, quickly falling into a light sleep.

Looking at the suns position when he woke, George estimated he had slept a couple of hours. Overall, George felt a lot better, although he ached from bruises over much of his body. George was also uncomfortably thirsty. He was sunburnt, but it looked as though the tent had prevented sunstroke or worse. His arm hurt.

It was evident that George would have to go back in at least once more to try for water and whatever food he could find. There had been some emergency supplies in the same onboard locker where he had seen the life raft, but he had not been able to carry anything more, having only one working arm.

Before setting off, George stripped the rope and cord tethers from the life raft and tied them to his life jacket. He intended to fasten anything valuable to himself, so he could bring it back to his little island refuge whilst keeping his shooting hand free. He also took the fourth oar.

George got almost to the aircraft before a shark took much interest in him. As it started to circle him, he hit out with the oar, striking the shark in one eye. The shark veered off, and George clambered back onto the plane.

Ready to leave a few minutes later, George stood on top of the downed aircraft and tied on the water containers and ration packs he had found. He slipped back into the water.

This time, the sharks got interested more quickly, and George felt forced again to fire his flare gun, but, disaster, the shark he targeted rolled in the water, and the flare bounced off its body harmlessly.

George was down to his last flare!

The final flare found its target, and, as before, George made good his escape in the feeding frenzy.

-0-

The following morning, George watched an aircraft as it circled him a dozen times. The pilot repeatedly waggled his wings, giving the easily understood 'I've seen you' message before peeling off.

George knew help was on the way.