Luck was probably a better aid than the spacesuit-arm paddle. Currents led Greg in a roundabout curve inland. He had never sailed, or even thought of sailing. It was too slow, but he imagined some oceanic scientist nodding at his oceanic journey.

They would point at a map with vague gesturing. "Yes, see here? You fell right into the great go-thataway tide of the Atlantic Ocean. Very fortunate. A few klicks east and you would drift like a mermaid Sisyphus. Out-of-place spacecraft rather than boulder, of course."

The gull was not amused by this imagined story. Greg stared at his avian friend. It had been four days since the bird took up its roost. It was moving less than before, something that hadn't seemed possible. It was probably on the verge of sliding into the ocean.

He had tried feeding the creature, bits of puree from his suit feeder, to no avail. Whatever was wrong seemed beyond his capability to fix.

It was frustrating to feel so useless. The world was burning around him. The ocean was sending him in whatever direction it chose. And he couldn't save a dying creature within arms' reach. Fate was happily reminding him of his worst critics. Greg was only good at avoiding death, but most people did that better, while also living productive lives.

Something drifted into his hair. He reached up to brush it out and raised a brow at the soft fluff-quality of its touch. He inspected his fingertips.

Like dust, but mixed with talcum powder. There was a certain grit to it despite feeling almost insubstantial. Like it would disappear if someone coughed.

More caught in his hair. Bits of gray added to brown hairs returning to their hidden gray streaks. Not that dyeing his hair would be important at the rate the world was going.

Hundreds of the gray flecks, then thousands more, settled onto the swelling waters around his chopper.

Greg looked up.

It was a near whiteout. The air was filled with fluff floating from a dimmed yellowing sky.

"Ash," he muttered.

He shook his head. What kind of eruption would send its plume all the way to the ocean?

His gaze swept the water's surface. Things were already getting cloudy. Like a dirty bathtub.

He was close. He could hear waves whispering against the shoreline. "I suppose I should get going."

The gull stared at him. It looked sleepy.

"Glad I could offer you a good place to rest, but we should probably be going." He should leave the bird, he recognized, but it was something. He was very close to having nothing, and it seemed foolish to fight for nothing.

Hunching over, he moved to the edge of the cockpit's entrance. Sliding onto his belly, he reached past his spacesuit. It was empty and armless, but it still mostly looked like a person. Comfortable in the reclined seat. He gave it a pat of thanks.

Then, rocking forward, he grabbed the emergency pack nestled along the seat's armrest. He'd already gone through the supplies, bits and pieces of dried foods, packets of drugs, bandages, and sorted through what he would actually need.

Then he pulled shrink-wrapped emergency clothes from a thin box on the wall. It was a navy-blue jumpsuit with "NASA" stenciled on each shoulder. The package included a pair of rubberized slippers, but he hoped to find proper shoes somewhere on land. He stuffed the bag into his emergency pack. He would change on shore.

A final glance told him what he already knew. There was noting left to salvage. Not that he could take without better tools. It seemed a waste, leaving so much, but he had little choice. Leaving meant a better chance for survival than sticking close to an empty husk.

Reaching once more into the suit, he opened to transmit. "Any station on this net, this is Flying Ghost."

He paused. Waited. Hoped. Yet, still, there was nothing. No response. No chatter. Nobody listening?

Greg shook his head. "I am departing the SpaceChopper, time now, to seek out shelter. The nutrient slurry, tasty as it was, is about empty. Plus, ash has started falling, and I don't know if the currents will take me any closer. If I wait, they might sling me back out into nowhere. No sense waiting longer."

There was a sudden burst of static, a whine on the chopper's speakers, but it faded into a subtle crackle.

"Well. If that was someone, I didn't understand a thing. Just heard noise." He took another moment to wait for a response. The static didn't change. "Well."

He waited again. Hope could be a poison. It wouldn't hurt to wait another hour, right? Noise on the radio might mean someone was getting closer, right?

Greg shook his head. He had made up his mind. He cleared his throat. "Ghost out."

"Alright, bird." He stood and shrugged the pack onto his shoulders. "Hope you aren't a real pecker." He laughed at his own joke.

The gull didn't respond.

Greg wrinkled his nose as he turned to the water.

It definitely resembled a dirty bathtub.

Walking to the nose of the SpaceChopper, he sat on the edge and let his legs dip into the water. "At least it's kind of warm."

Then he slipped into the tropical waters. His weight took him plunging beneath the surface, and he let out a breath to clear his nose while submerged. It felt good, and he wondered why he hadn't taken the time to bathe.

He didn't have soap, but he could've at least scrubbed away some of his sweat and grime.

Breaking the surface, he turned to face the SpaceChopper. "Phew. Really does stink up here."

Kicking with still-tingling legs, he moseyed closer to the gull. "Now don't make this difficult."

The desire was stupid. He acknowledged it again. But the thing would get nothing out on the ocean. The water wouldn't be safe for fish, and that meant the bird would need uncontaminated food to have a chance at recovery.

"What are you really?" he asked. Greg was not someone that knew birds. He could recognize a parrot, mostly, or sparrows. Though, he wasn't sure if there were differences between sparrows and finches.

His ill companion was fairly large, with a fading black-cap and a bright orange bill. Its wing tips were black, fading abruptly to white as if they'd been singed. "Well," decided Greg, "Whatever you are, hop aboard." He turned to offer the top of the pack for a perch.

The gull didn't move.

"Oh, don't be stubborn. You know, I could've already left."

It didn't budge.

"Shit. What the fuck am I doing."

Greg grabbed one of the craft's external handholds and pulled himself out of the water. Splashing forward, he wrapped a hand around the bird's back and fell back into the ocean.

The bird wriggled, lamely, and spread its wings as if ready to get away.

But the effort was weak enough that Greg could keep hold while kicking to keep himself above water. He reached back, craning his neck away from the creature, and set it on top of his pack.

It situated its wings and wobbled in an attempt to stay upright.

Greg settled a hand on its back to keep it stabilized while spitting to keep murky ocean out of his lungs. "Careful, there. I'm sure you can swim, but it's probably not great for you."

The ash couldn't be great for either of them. It was collecting in floating clumps.

Then the gull settled down and folded its legs beneath its body. It wasn't going anywhere.

"Great. Glad you're settled."

The bird cocked its head, breathing too hard, looking bewildered.

"Well. Off we go then."

Turning his gaze away from his passenger, he spread his arms and began paddling for shore. It didn't look far, but he felt like a minimal-energy stroke was safest.

Slowly, bird in tow, he left his stunt craft behind.

#

Land.

Sweet glorious land.

It would've been better if the sun were still out.

If the beach wasn't mostly covered in gritty gray ash.

But Greg had made it ashore. He crawled halfway up the beach because he didn't trust his legs. He didn't want to stand and fall over, especially considering Gull.

It was a stupid name, but he couldn't keep calling it bird.

He kept expecting it to fly away, or fall overboard, but it had clung on, even when waves had swept over the both of them. Maybe there was still some want of life left in the creature.

It continued to hang on even as Greg pushed to his feet on the graying beach. He had landed on some forested part of the landmass, and there wasn't a clear indication of promising directions to take. Good thing he'd studied maps.

The chopper had made him fairly certain that he was near San Salvador Island. If that were true, he only needed a short walk through the woods to find a road. He knew there had to be trails. People lived on the island, and vacationers had visited the area for years.

"Okay," he muttered. He was feeling tired, but he didn't want to sleep on an unprotected beach. Not with evening coming quick, and not with the building cover of ash. He wanted shelter and the promise of food.

He also knew that stopping would be difficult to overcome. Stopping would mean he'd have to find the energy to start.

So, he began trudging down the beach.

He never had gotten around to visiting the Bahamas.

"As good a time as any," he noted.

Gull said nothing, but shook its head free of gathering ash.