He began to feel faint with hunger. His thoughts turned away from drowning, toward starvation and heat exhaustion. The room was growing warmer and warmer. With his cupped hands he began to pour water over his head. But there was so much oil that soon he was covered in it.

He banged on the walls, three strikes in quick succession.

A father of four, Mr. Charahani thought of his family, wondering what he could have done to make things better for them. How would his family survive after he died, he asked himself?

He thought of all the time he had spent on the ferry, leaving every morning and returning later in the day.

The ferry was vital in the lives of the islanders and people were always happy to see it.

On land, everything was stop and go. But on the water, Mr. Charahani felt free. The way you could move purposefully, unimpeded.

He had loved his job. What a fool he had been, he thought. Why had he chosen a dangerous job on the water, he wondered. He had never thought of his work as particularly dangerous before. But here he was, trapped.

The water crept higher and he moved higher up the stairs. But he was running out of room above him.

“Soon, there would be no air and the engine room would be filled all the way up with water,” Mr. Charahani remembered thinking.

The room was perhaps three-quarters full of water, he guessed. He wondered if he would have the strength to find and break one of the windows. His heart began to race as he imagined the final moments, when he would have to leave his ladder and try to get to the surface. He poured more water on himself trying to keep cool. Oil coated his face.