The coat weighted him down more than the waves, which seemed to smack him every time the Frenchman tried to get back to the surface. Amidst it all he forgot the techniques to stay floating, not that he ever thought he’d have to remember, so at this point Nathaniel, a sad image, was just flailing with his eyes shut, fighting the ocean as well as his own panic. The seawater managed to keep him up, but he sure had to cough it all out when someone grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him right next to a raft as he squealed an embarrassingly weak noise. He hung onto the thing instinctively with both arms, his eyes still half closed and hurting from the salt, panting, swearing. When one of his eyelids tore itself upwards at last his mind began settling into the situation at hand. This was bad, but statitics were in his favor, or so he read. Bad luck lets a skeptic’s mind finally be optimistic for once. Good philosophy, potentially. He’ll tell someone once he gets rescued – in about ten hours maximum. 

 He attempted to push the hair back from his view with his left hand and almost got pulled down again, so the job wasn’t done. He gazed around through his wet, dangling fringe and swore again. Unless they find land he’ll be in this unfortunate situation for a long time. He waited for a wave to help him up with minimal dignity and at the right moment hoisted himself on board the raft. Still he landed the way unfit people climbed out of the pool: on their stomach, pathetically. Nathaniel got straight and slid to the back of the raft where he took broader gander around, still only with one eye. The facts were there. Their scene he was in mesmerized the medical student for a while, as he lost focus and begun comparing it to what he would have imagined a plane crash to be like beforehand. He made use of his fingernails to comb through his hair again, finding that everything was unbearably sticky, and his mouth still tasted too salty. And his phone wad gone. Miserable disposition.