It was the third morning and the smell of tar and seaweed had got into his clothes. His breathing was shallow and his skin had the pallor of the underbelly of a lifeless fish. Tiny crabs were tearing at the raw stinging wounds of his flesh. His mind was numb from exhaustion, hunger and cold. "Where was he? Was he really still alive?" he thought. There was a dull, thumping sound coming from up above him. A radio seemed to be playing in the distance. His decision to join the Merchant Marines at fifteen years old had broken his mother's heart. He hated leaving her behind with the new baby, but since his father had passed away, he needed to be the the breadwinner. The idea of being a pirate on the open sea, sailing from port to port across the globe appealed to him. The circumstances of his father's death compelled him to seek distance. He had been working as a deck hand for fifty seven day runs from New York to Singapore working lots of overtime, chipping rust and tightening the containers when the explosion came out of nowhere. He felt the shards of glass penetrate his skin as he was thrown overboard, landing on a yellow plastic container of dead fish. Three days passed. He was sure his ribs were broken. The dead fish had sustained him. Dehydration was causing him to swell and his skin to crack open. Then thankfully unconsciousness forced him into a a deep wild sleep. The sounds from the pier up above drew clearer and the ringing in his ears began to subside. Where was he? " Mister?" a very small voice from behind startled him into a renewed state of awareness. "Where am I" - the broken young man asked in a raspy whisper. - the first sentence is from A Conspiracy of Faith