Washed Ashore

I awakened on the sand, my lungs forcibly expelling water. The beach was no more than a white-hot glare to my eyes, and the grit tore painfully on my sunburned and peeling skin.

But I was alive.

The passage of time was slow, adrift on the ocean. I remember clinging to a punctured life raft, hearing the hiss of escaping air, and _knowing_ that I would soon die. I had accepted the fact, reluctantly, and laid down my head with full knowledge that if I slept, I wouldn't wake. It seemed a merciful end to my time at sea.

But I'm here, now.

"Quieres una bebida?"

Lifting my head, I looked through hazy eyes. Someone was speaking? The voice seemed to be coming from a tiny umbrella, perched in a tall drink on the sand. It was far too early for madness to be setting in.

"Pfft. Esta borracho."

No, the voice was coming from a man. He was walking back to a thatched hut of some kind. Another castaway? No, he had a neon sign, advertising the fully stocked bar.

Hmm...surviving here might be easier than I'd thought.