Emerson Ward Mysteries

The child faced water. Some primitive instinct told him he faced east, but there was no way to know for sure. There was only hope that from some direction light would come soon. The child stood trembling, unable to move. Hardly anything was discernable -- flat vastness of desert behind, mirrored in front by the sea, all shrouded in velvet, starless night. The only break in that black continuum was the line of ocean froth gently breaking on shore. The only sound came from there, too. The child was alone, and as that realization crept into his consciousness, the sound of the water became the hissing from the maw of some otherworldly monster; the froth on the beach became hunger-induced saliva from the same maw. The child emitted a low animal moan, softly at first, which built into an uncontrollable yowl of sheer terror.
I was that child, and my own howling brought me out of the nightmare into the light of day. I could not let my hopes be crushed, so I had none. The fears threatened to reduce me to helplessness and I could sense my sanity slipping into the darkness. Desperately, my mind latched on to an emotion that had been tucked in a corner, buried under the weight of all the rest -- rage. I nurtured it, let it build and grow, then considered it, analyzed it, determined its source. The mind became attentive, focused on the feeling and its causes, and there was calm. Cold, icy calm. I held it there, fueling it occasionally with flashes of remembrance until the mind was clear and in control and working the problem.
I was on a small damn island in a big damn ocean, and I had to get off without the wrong people knowing, without getting killed.