Fins

Fins, a photo by Rohan Reilly Photography on Flickr.

He crashed on the planet and the cockpit was shattered. They were the seat belts to save him from death, but not from traumas and bruises.
He dragged himself out of the twisted wreckage of his ship, his head aching and fractured ribs. His head pounded relentlessly, his vision almost misty.
The instrumentation was gone, he had no way to contact the base to ask for help. In a daze he recovered survival equipment and he began to trudge in the vast cold desolation.
The first day he knew that night never came on that land and the endless day was an eternal misty haze. The light barely filtered across the thick clouds.
Three days later he had crossed thirty miles of desolation, never encountering anything or anybody. There was nothing but the rough basalt beneath his feet.
Every night he logged the non existent developments to keep his mental sanity. Fever and headache tormented him and thirst was clutching his throat, but he knew he had to ration water.
On the fifth day he realized the folly of abandoning the crash site, the only one that would have been the reference of the rescue team.
On the seventh day his nostrils smelled salty air and in his mind clouded hope began to revive. Already he had lost all sense of rational and he did not realize the uselessness of the salt water in his salvation.
Finally he arrived on the shores of the gray sea, and he sank down on his knees. In front of him stood out the fins on the blurred background. Majestic rock formations that rose from the mist.
He knew that the sea water was poisonous and that his stock was running out.
He died in his sleep on the bank of alien sea.