You splash through the water and lunge for the door. The handle is slippery, but you manage to slam it shut and push against the wall with your foot so you have the door as secure as possible.
The clawing sound stops. You know better than to be relieved.
The handle shakes under your grip. You've gotten there just in time, because whatever is out there is trying very hard to get inside.
Grunting as you strain to keep the door secure, you feel your pulse race as the question of how long you'll have to keep this up—how long you can keep this up—demands to be answered. Whatever is out there is strong. Very strong. The muscles in your arms scream warnings at you as they are exerted to their limits, and your courage threatens to desert you altogether as soon as that cabin door is yanked open and your watery shelter is inevitably invaded.
The shaking of the handle stops. You wait a full minute before allowing yourself to take the deep breaths you so desperately need. You feel victorious, like you've proven something, though you are nowhere near relaxed yet.
When you turn around, your grasp still firm on the handle, you see that Anuja has picked up your baseball bat. You've never seen her look so ready to hurt something.
Not too far away, you hear a seagull cry. It's the first time today you can recall hearing any bird or animal. It feels like a good sign.
Your phone buzzes. It's Diego.
"Where are you? Are you still in the boat?" he asks when you pick up. "We're on the beach."