“Está bien, todo está listo. Corta la cuerda.”

I was barely conscious when I heard those last few words. Little did I know, they’d be the last human words I’d hear for a long while. My name’s Dion. I work as an accountant. If you were to ask one of my friends about who I was, they’d say I’m pretty damn smart, but also irresponsible. If there’s any one great weakness I have, it’s that I’m a slave to my vices. Psychedelics, mostly – LSD, shrooms, peyote. Not habit-forming substances, but I’m an escapist with an addictive personality. This has gotten me in trouble more than a few times in my short life – I tend to spend a little too much, and take a little too much. At least, that’s what my dealer always said.

My dealer’s always had an odd sense of humor. He’s the kind of guy that would casually joke about having people “taken out”, speak in a cheesy Chicago gangster accent, and regularly preface interactions with claims that he has “an offer you can’t refuse”. He had the strangest house I’d ever seen – the overt insanity of its architecture was the whole reason I’d met him in the first place, but that’s a story for another time. The interior was filled with a menagerie of expensive and decadent, yet mismatched décor – his living room alone contained a golden chandelier, bearskin rug, towering grandfather clock, Egyptian pottery display, and a “faithful reproduction” of Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. I didn’t know the name of that painting off the top of my head, mind you, but he made sure to tell me during one of my visits.

His general disposition always gave me the impression that he lived without any worries – financial, moral, or otherwise. I seriously doubted he even made any money off the drug trade, as he seemed more interested in toying around with his guests than moving product. He’d tell you stories about his night hiking and urban exploration exploits. He’d have you sit down and watch online videos about international politics and violent crimes, and belt out complex commentaries on them that went on for minutes. He’d make you watch as he played old video games. Sometimes, he’d just force you to do something strange, like eat an entire bucket of fried chicken. It was a song and dance you had to put up with, because if you ever objected or interrupted him, he’d just kick you out – the men casually holding shotguns in the corner often helped with that. Every visit was a surreal, confusing, and slightly frightening experience – but his prices were good. And I just couldn’t stop.

…But apparently, that was a problem. I always wondered what he meant when he offhandedly let out that “take a little too much” comment. I never screwed him over, and I thought I was a consistent customer on amicable terms with him, and yet… There I was – knocked out, bound, and abandoned. The last thing I remember was looking into the center of that painting of his. That Rembrandt. But at the moment, I was looking at piers. Dark piers, in the distance, rhythmically moving up and down, with a full moon overhead. It was unlike any raft I’d ever been on before; the bottom felt much more stable and firm, yet it was clearly some type of inflatable material, as it gave with enough applied force. Not that I had much force to spare – I could barely muster the strength to sit up and watch the receding scenery as I drifted to sleep.

I awoke to a warm, clear, stunningly bright spring day. I would have described it as a remarkable experience, if I wasn’t so terrified. The shocking realization of what had happened hit me for the second time; this wasn’t a nightmare, and I wasn’t going to be waking up. A wave of panic overtaking me, I darted my head back and forth, searching my surroundings. I was on what appeared to be a children’s bouncy castle, floating in an endless expanse of water. There were a large number of burlap sacks in the raft with me – at least 20. A large rectangular object – covered in a blue tarp – was leaning against the castle’s rear wall. I had a blistering headache, but I got on my feet and began investigating my strange vessel’s supplies. The first thing I did was tear down the tarp – and what I found underneath astonished me. 

It was The Storm. The complete painting, frame and all. It was even vacuum-sealed into some kind of odd plastic sleeve, ostensibly to prevent water damage. Was it the same one from my dealer’s living room? Why was it here, with me? Why was I even here? What was the purpose of this? I could only speculate upon the motivations and intentions of my captor. Maybe he had some type of high-tech satellite watching my actions, hoping for some form of sick entertainment. Maybe this was what his twisted, broken mind considered an appropriate punishment for my perceived transgressions. Maybe there wasn’t any explanation. I pondered my predicament while looking out of the castle’s entrance, into the shifting waters, stretching out infinitely over the horizon. I realized it was pointless to dwell on it.

True to my pencil-pushing sensibilities, the first thing I did that day was take a thorough, detailed inventory. Motivations aside, it was clear he intended for me to survive for a period of time – the first few sacks I opened contained an abundance of portable solar panels, batteries, patches, an air compressor, and even a snazzy, futuristic water desalinator – everything I needed to generate potable water and keep my castle afloat. I found a variety of other equally useful but less noteworthy pieces of survival gear, but I was disappointed to find no food or fishing equipment. The surreal nature of the situation wasn’t lost on me – I was literally floating out at sea on a children’s bouncy castle, decorated with a priceless piece of artwork, sorting through a comically large pile of sacks filled with the most expensive, sophisticated modern survival equipment money could buy. I found it to be simultaneously confusing, luxurious, sad, hilarious, and terrifying. After a half-hour of sorting and searching, there was but one sack I hadn’t checked, and upon opening it, for the second time that day, I was absolutely astonished. I found myself looking at what must have been well over 15 pounds worth of dried psilocybe cubensis, tightly packed together in an enormous, brownish-yellow ball. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved, angry, or sad.

The stoner half of me was elated to find some minor perk in this nightmarish predicament, but the other, more practical half of me recognized that sack to be be the death sentence it likely was. Magic mushrooms, even when growing from a nutrient-rich substrate, weren’t exactly a superfood. Knowing my dealer, he probably found a way to grow them on twinkies. There was a large bottle of multivitamins in one of the sacks – but I seriously doubted a diet composed entirely of psychoactive mushrooms and vitamins was sustainable.

The last thing I remember eating was a frozen salisbury steak dinner – it was all I could afford that week after dropping my last $50, quite ironically, on a ton of mushrooms. I’d cursed myself for my lack of foresight while choking it down and feeling sorry for myself, but considering the culinary adventure awaiting me, I realized just how lucky I really was.

Overall, the first day turned out to be quite successful. I thoroughly inspected my castle, and found that it was unusually stable – no matter where I jumped, climbed, or pushed, I couldn’t get it to even partially capsize. There were also a number of aftermarket patches and improvements I discovered at the base – I’m no sailor, but they appeared to be supplementary flotation devices of some sort. I made a roof for my castle by draping each corner of the tarp over a spire, and then tying it down with survival cord. I positioned the solar panels on top of my new roof, and cut a series of small holes through the top to run the cabling down to my battery bank. I had no idea what I was really doing, mind you – but this was very advanced, expensive equipment, with clear instructions. I was surprised by how light and sleek all of it was – particularly the desalinator, though I lacked the immediate means to operate it. It seemed like all of this was meant to fit together, though I didn’t understand the choice of vessel.

The next week was spent finding my feet. I quickly learned the dangers of dehydration, and found myself anxiously watching my battery bank’s digital readout as it built up energy – it was my freshwater lifeline, after all. The desalinator was efficient and easy to use; it took very little electricity, and yielded enough potable water for half a day. Dipping the collection bucket into the sea and inserting it back into the machine became a comforting routine, and as my energy reserves began outpacing my water consumption, I became a little more relaxed. Boredom was my greatest enemy, as I quickly grew tired of swimming, jumping around in the castle, and critically scrutinizing the same piece of artwork. What I would have given for a radio, a cell phone, a GPS unit… I knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west, but I had no idea where I started out. The skyline of the city I was dropped off from wasn’t familiar, but it seemed like I was somewhere in the northern tropics, possibly the Caribbean or the gulf. I wasn’t equipped with any oars or paddles, and I doubt I would have have had much sway over my castle’s course even if I did. I was content, for the moment, to just survive and allow the sea to take me where it pleased.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t getting any less hungry. The groans of my empty stomach were easily ignored at first, but they quickly became distressing, and then, by the fourth day, mind-consuming. I seemed to be getting slower, dumber, and weaker every hour. The pangs of hunger and desire for a respite were both quite strong, but I knew consuming the mushrooms was likely to end badly – at least, until I got an idea.

Freshly purified water from the desalinator was hot. Damn hot. It had to be – it’d just been boiled. And it just so happens enough sustained heat kills the psychoactive compounds in magic mushrooms. And so, with some elementary trial and error, along with the use of an extracted binocular lens and some time under the sun, I was soon holding a freshly boiled container of ghetto mushroom soup. I even scraped some sea salt out of the machine to give it some kick.

I raised the edge of the large plastic container to my lips and tipped it forward, drinking voraciously. The lumpy, musty concoction would have certainly disagreed with me a week prior, but now it was divine ambrosia. The entire half-gallon was gone before I knew it, and within mere minutes, I felt completely revitalized. I was strong, alert, and alive again. The world felt less dreary, less dull, less subdued. The multicolored walls of my castle became more bright and vibrant. I stood up and laughed, taking in my success, my triumph. But I couldn’t stop laughing. I just kept giggling, and I didn’t know why. What was so funny? Why was everything flowing together? The ocean was the only thing around me that was supposed to move, right? Why couldn’t anything stay still? My heart sank as the horrifying realization set in.

I didn’t cook it long enough.

Oh no. This was bad. This was very bad.

This was a survival scenario, and here I am about to get high. Very high. My first reaction was to sit in the corner and close my eyes. I couldn’t trip, not there, not like that. This was asking for trouble. I covered my face and drew into the fetal position. I didn’t know what I had hoped to accomplish – sleeping while in this state was impossible, and considering the dosage, I would have to hold that position for hours. Even absolute darkness seemed to be moving, shifting, growing, and shrinking. Echoing voices from the past filled my head, and my mind was dripping. Concepts became fuzzy, and my emotions flared. I was angry at my dealer, at myself, at the world. I was afraid of what was going to happen to me. With the superego stripped away, my id and ego began to run wild. You’re pathetic. You’re incompetent. You’re a fool. Your humor and posturing belies your own inadequacy. Why did you let this happen? You could have prevented this. You’re here all alone. You’re going to die here. This is all you can do – get fucked up on drugs and feel sorry for yourself. You can’t do anything right.

And then, I felt like I was a doll in a toybox. I was suddenly sitting on my castle’s little entrance pier. I looked up at the clouds, and I felt I was within a great marble, rolling along the floor. Earth is like a giant marble. I never played marbles very much as a kid. I wish I had some marbles. Have I lost my marbles? How did I get there? What was I doing before then? I can feel the grains of salt in the ocean, brushing against my feet. Were there even grains of salt in the ocean? I’m submerged in quicksand. I’m thralled by the stimuli of the rushing water and hot, firmly inflated plastic. I’m cemented in place, inextricable from the environment around me. I was a stone lodged in the peak of a mountain. The wind hit me, cut into me, shaped me.

I sat there, grinning like an idiot, for what felt like hours. And then I slipped overboard.

My body was enveloped in a hydrophobic sleeve. The water hugged me, but I wasn’t wet. I was detached from the water, just visiting. I glided gracefully in a downward spiral, chasing the secret of the water and the waves. The sea was my friend. I was surrounded by love. Was the sea really my friend? Wait. No. No, the sea wasn’t my friend. Was I drowning? What is drowning? I was uncomfortable. There was something I needed to do above the water. What did I need to do above the water? It was getting dark. Things went blank.

But then, something smooth and slippery came up between my legs, lifting me upwards. It became brighter – slowly at first, but then very suddenly. My head broke through the big blue veil. Hello, sun. I sat atop the waves. The sea was my friend again. I was wet, my mouth was salty, and my castle was a few meters away, peacefully riding the water’s surface. it was all so beautiful. My hands rested atop the smooth, rubbery object. I looked down, and I saw gray flesh, and friendly eyes. A dolphin? Those really exist? How hilarious. A dolphin! I’ll name him Donald. Donald the dolphin.

It turned out that Don was pretty smart. He understood that the strange, scrawny, brown thing probably belonged with the strange, big, colorful thing. I rode the waves. Don brought me home. He brought me up to the lip of my castle’s pier, and nudged me up against my castle. I gripped the sun-baked plastic and climbed back onto my craft, weakly clinging to the pier’s lip like a sickly young pup. I sat at the entrance, meeting my new friend’s gaze. The sun was glaring, but I appreciated it. Don watched me with a curious glint in his eyes. I almost felt embarrassed, sitting slumped in a corner gathering my wits while this creature watched me. I was still pretty out of it, but I swear, it was actually seemed like he was worried about me.

I breathed deeply, and thought logical thoughts; the unique setting of this trip made coming back to reality especially difficult. Donald stood by patiently as I pawed at my face and tried to clear my head. Nothing made sense. I’m on a boat. But it’s not a boat, it’s a castle. But it’s not a castle, it’s a float. But it’s not a float, it’s a boat… There’s a dolphin in front of me. What am I? What is anything? The waves were still busy and fuzzy, but most things were slowly regaining coherence. The world slowly became duller, harder, and sharper. As the hours passed, it also became darker. At some point, Don left. Once my thoughts were calmed, I crawled back inside and drifted off to sleep. I dreamt of happy, giggling dolphins.

The next couple of days’ weather set me on edge. It was raining lightly each night, and it seemed to be getting progressively worse. As stable as my sanctuary has been thus far, my jury-rigged tarp and solar panel assembly made the craft much more vulnerable, and a storm would likely mean the end of me. As always, Rembrandt’s work stood in the corner, mocking me. There is no god here. Nobody will stop your storm. I was beginning to understand my dealer’s sense of humor. The incident had left me shaken, but it was good to have some type of food in my belly again. Subsequent mushroom soup attempts met with more success – I carefully rationed my supply of mushrooms, and boiled the container’s contents thoroughly. Considering how much I cooked the soup, I doubt that much dietary value remained, but it was better than completely starving.

On the bright side, I had a new ally. I’m no marine biologist (or is it psychologist, in this instance?), but me and Don were apparently getting to be good friends – or, at least, we were developing a healthy business relationship. As I said before, boredom was my greatest enemy, and Don, at the moment, was my greatest friend. He’d just saved my life, and I felt like I owed him a favor – I saw his friendly, concerned eyes staring back at me one morning, 2 days after he’d saved me.

So I gave him a few mushrooms.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. “It’s cruel of you to subject an innocent animal to those kinds of substances.” “It’s ironic and cold to give him the same thing that nearly killed you in similar circumstances.” You might even just say it was stupid of me, a complete waste of perfectly good psychedelics – but I would disagree. Don had the time of his life. I threw him a few grams, and he chomped them down like a champ. Or, just swallowed them, I guess; I don’t really know how dolphins ingest things. But I tell you – he was in love. He rolled, he jumped, he sang. Don was having a good time, and so was I, watching him dart around in the water like an organic torpedo. For once, I got to see somebody else act like an idiot while enormously fucked up.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t make it a routine. I needed to eat something to survive, and my gross, over-boiled mushroom soup was all I had on-hand. I had tried my hand at fishing, but failed miserably – neither my skills, nor my makeshift tools were up to the task. This however, is where Don’s intelligence came to my rescue for the second time. You see, Don liked mushrooms, and I had mushrooms. Don saw me eating mushrooms, but knew I could likely eat something else. Don engineered a solution that made us both happy – he became my fisherman.

I was a bit taken aback when I woke up to that wounded bass flopping around at my front door, but I definitely wasn’t taken aback by its flavor. I hadn’t ever bothered to buy fresh fish before – as I mentioned previously, drugs took precedence over good food. I now saw the error in my ways. Even when clumsily boiled in filtered sea water, it was delicious. I had to have more. I threw Don a few more grams, and he got me another fish, different this time, but equally as edible. We repeated the process. Again and again. Mushroom tolerance builds and dispels quickly, so I had to radically increase his dosages between trades – I didn’t want him to think they’d stopped working. I tried to trade as often as possible when our little trade agreement first started; my stomach was still growling, and I had some catching up to do. Thank god for Don.

After 2 weeks out at sea, I was beginning to feel pretty good about my situation. Having to swim every time I wanted to take a shit, dealing with sunburns, and the sound of the ocean didn’t even phase me anymore. I still had a good supply of mushrooms, and Don was consistent with his deliveries – he even started giving me extra helpings. I’d encountered a series of very small islands, and was convinced it wouldn’t be long before I hit land, wherever it might be. The rain hadn’t stopped, but it hadn’t gotten too insane, either. I recognized the fragility of my situation – my dependence on the desalinator, the instability of my roof and solar assembly, relying on a wild animal for my primary food source – but at this point, under these conditions, I really just didn’t care. Nothing that was happening to me should have even been possible, but there I was. Hell, the fact that the castle hadn’t deflated on the first day was already surprising to me. For all I knew, I’d just gone insane.

Finally, on the evening of day 16, I caught sight of a promising development: seagulls. Flocks of seagulls. I’d encountered a few before this point, but none ever landed on my castle, and they were often far in the distance. Land must be nearby. My raft continued on its aimless journey, oblivious to my anxious hopes. I counted my blessings as I laid down between two bulging plastic floor-columns for the night, anticipating the opportunity to once again sleep on a real bed in the near future.

I awoke to the startling sound of a loud thunderclap. It was raining – hard. I was instantly filled with dread. I was wet, even though water had never gotten through the tarp before. There was water pooling beneath me. I rubbed the sleepiness from my eyes and reached for my flashlight, looking up slowly, hesitantly, knowing what I’d find. Damn it. The tarp had partially split open, and a solar panel had fallen through the tear. It was a few feet away from me, firmly, vertically lodged into my castle’s floor. Shit. I crawled over to the impact site. I could just barely hear the low, sickly whine of my craft losing air over the roar of the storm. I leapt into action, fishing around inside the burlap sacks for the patches. I found them – they were small, strange, sticky, gel-based things. I haphazardly slapped them across the gash and stood atop them, watching the arches of my castle like a hawk. They continued to sag.

The air compressor didn’t work. The battery bank was charged and ready, and the pump seemed to be operating, but the air pressure continued to drop. The tear in the roof widened, and another solar panel dropped, the shift in weight further damaging the already strained tarp. I knew this was likely the end. I donned a life jacket. Amidst the chaos of the storm, the tearing tarp, the rumbling air compressor, and the falling solar panels, I gazed upon The Storm. Even in the sparse moonlight, sealed in a giant plastic sleeve, obscured by a downpour, and harshly illuminated by a flashlight, it was still beautiful.

I decided I had to save it. I grabbed my knife and began jumping up and down like a fool, expending what little firmness and bounciness remained in the castle. I cut the cords that tied the roof to the spires. As I freed the second corner, all the tarp, panels, and bank wiring came violently tumbling down – I was careful not to let any debris hit The Storm, moving to shield it with my own body. I salvaged what cord I could, hurriedly daisy-chaining it together and tying the painting to myself, with about 10 feet of slack. The painting was almost as large as me; I had no choice but to tow it… Hopefully the sleeve was air-tight.

As the water seeped into my castle, I hastily pushed the tarp overboard and took one last survey of my supplies – I realized I still had several pounds of mushrooms left over. Yes, as you could see, my priorities hadn’t changed much. I took a few essentials in-hand and threw them into the mushroom sack, then triple-bagged it for good measure.

A giant bag of magic mushrooms slung over my shoulder and a priceless painting unceremoniously tied to me like a beer cooler, I waited for my craft to sink. The water crept further upwards, starting at my ankles, then rising to my knees, and finally settling at my stomach. I became weightless. I helplessly watched as the spires of my once great fortress were enveloped and swallowed by the hungry waves. I stood alone. The water felt colder at night, in more ways than one. The Storm floated atop the water a few feet away from me, hopefully kept in one piece by its frame. The life jacket freeing me from having to paddle to stay afloat, I became lost in thought. I was terrified and exhausted.

My hands brushed by something smooth and slippery. I rode the waves once again.