The blanket provided little warmth as the boat bounced on the angry ocean. He huddled beneath the coarse fabric, voices around him melding with the splashing of water and the faint roll of thunder in the distance. Once he had tried to make sense of the voices, of the things the men, these sailors, had tried to tell him, but it was pointless. None of it made sense; it couldn't make sense. It was impossible.

Their questions came from everywhere. He had no answers. When he tried to tell them that he had drowned, that there were people dying nearby, they had looked at him as if he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had.

No, it was all too real, too clear and crisp in his memory. The big ship dying. The ice of the water freezing his blood still. He felt Rose's hand, clinging to his own. He heard shouting, terror-filled pleas for help. He heard the shouts dying down, heard a soft, sweet voice singing-

Too real, too clear and too crisp to be his imagination. Maybe this boat was not real. Maybe he was trapped in purgatory.

Or maybe this was hell.

Something was wrong. The boat had been caught in the storm. The men raced around, shouting orders. Somehow, the moment of terror did not quite reach his consciousness.

Jack Dawson wasn't afraid of death, or the cold water. Unless he was mad, he thought that he remembered dying before.

Maybe this time he would get it right, he thought as the waves swept him overboard.

*****

April 15, 1912

The water was freezing. No, it was beyond freezing with the shivering of his body the only thing keeping him warm. That and the hand he held onto, Rose's hand. She was his anchor, her and his awareness of her. He could feel her shivering, trembling; he could almost hear her teeth chattering. Or perhaps it was the sound of his own that rattled around in his head so.

The whistle was still blowing. That offered him a small measure of comfort. The whistle would draw the other boats back. They would be saved. He would be with Rose. He had to believe that.

"I'm so cold," Rose's small whimper drifted to his ears over the shouts and cries of the other passengers.

Jack turned to her, his heart clenching. Her face was ghostly, lips faintly blue and the fire of her hair flecked with ice as the air dried it. As an afterthought, he wondered if he looked that terrible. "The boats will come back for us, Rose. Hold on just a little longer. They had to row away for the suction and now they'll be coming back."

She nodded, saying nothing.

Jack clung to her hand, offering a small prayer for help and survival. The splashing in the water around them was a distraction. He tried hard to ignore his shivering body; tried hard to ignore the biting, freezing cold of the water. It was exactly as he had told her; water this cold hit your body like a million needles all at once.

"It's getting quiet," Rose observed.

Jack listened. She was right. That couldn't be a good sign. He hadn't wanted to tell Rose; still didn't want to admit it to himself, but with water like this overexposure could kill a man.

"Just a few more minutes," he assured her, "It'll take them a while to get the boats organized."

She did not answer him. Jack didn't have to lie to her. Rose knew the truth as much as well as he did. If they had planned to send boats, they would have sent them by now. He had witnessed the growing panic as the last boats were launched-those secure in them would be too cowardly to return.

"I don't know about you, but I intend to write a strongly worded letter to the White Star Line about all this." Jack made the joke with a laugh. A laugh bordering on tears and hysteria. No. He would stay in control; he would not lose it, not here and not like this. For Rose, he would be strong for Rose.

He was surprised by the intensity in her blue eyes, the strength of her voice.

"I love you, Jack."

No, Rose, no, his mind shouted. The words were a resignation, an acceptance of death as much as if she had rolled off this bureau board and drowned herself in the freezing water.

"No, don't you say your good-byes, Rose. You're going to make it."

"I'm so cold," the words were a soft plea.

"You're going to get out of this. You're going to go on," Jack struggled to speak, cursing the violent shudders of his body, cursing the effort it took to coherently map out his words, nonetheless speak them. "You're going to have lots of babies and you're going to die an old lady warm in your bed. But not here. Not this night. Do you understand me?"

"I can't feel my body."

"Rose, listen to me. Winning that ticket was the best thing that ever happened to me," he took a deep breath, forcing the air into his lungs. He was so cold, so very cold. And the cold made him so very tired; he only wanted to close his eyes and drift. But he couldn't. Not yet. "It brought me to you. And I'm thankful, Rose."

Again he struggled to control the shivering and discovered that he could not. He could barely feel Rose's hand in his own. "You must do me this honor--promise me you will survive-that you will never give up-no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless. Promise me now, and never let go of that promise."

"I promise."

Jack nodded. She would survive. He could close his eyes, now and sleep. Just rest for a few moments.

Goodbye, Rose. He whispered it silently in his heart, aware of her head resting close to his.

The darkness was welcome.

*** End of Chapter One

Chapter Two