Warriors

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Ada Winslow knew she would likely die soon, but human nature and a strong will to survive kept her aching hands on the oars. The ocean had calmed through the day, but now the swells were growing in size, beating the hull of her boat.

She leaned back, putting her weight into the oar stroke, but the twenty-foot aluminum fishing boat seemed to be getting no closer to her destination.

Blood from the repetitive friction made her uncalloused hands slick inside the gloves. Almost in a trance, she continued the motion: pulling, grunting, pulling, grunting.

It took every atom of her will not to rest. Climbing back into the narrow compartment designed for supplies and sleeping sounded like heaven. She could strip off the gloves, clean her hands, and bandage them up.

She stopped only to straighten her sore back. Both arms throbbed, near cramping. Her body wasn’t used to this type of exercise. Life in the sky hadn’t required anything like it. She had mostly sat in front of a monitor, crunching numbers about storms or the amount of recycled water lost each month. Monotonous stuff that required using her brain more than her body.

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