Waking Ideas

The fierce storm raged against me for five days. Repeatedly assaulted by nature’s wrath, I was nearly torn from my vessel into the depths of the abyss. I struggled against the forces, doing everything in my power to continue my voyage, but in the end my efforts were in vain. Early this morning, my small ship crashed into the reef, stranding me on a small island.

As if content with my demise, the storm passed, leaving in its place a strange calm of clouds. I am now confined to this tiny world, imprisoned by the vastness of the empty endless void surrounding me. The sea and the sky begin to merge in my mind, both taking on a grayish blue hue as the difference between them disappears.

I spent most of the day exploring this side of the island. There seems to be sufficient fruit in the trees for my survival, but no animal life is to be found. I have used the ship wood that washed ashore to build a shelter for myself. I fastened my shirt on some branches to catch rain water, which I will collect below in my canteen. I must find a stream or some other source of water if I am to survive.

Of my possessions, only my canteen, knife, and small chest containing my papers and ink washed ashore with me. I shall endeavor to record these solitary struggles until I am rescued or until I die.

[Editor's Note: This is part of a series of entries taken from a worn journal that was found in a box of mostly worthless trinkets bought at an estate sale years ago. While most of the writing is legible, some of the ink has faded and a few pages are missing. Sam has taken the liberty of filling in any gaps. ]