Waking Ideas

The night was warm but sleeping on land was strange after so many cold nights at sea. On my ship, the sea rocked me back and forth, the soft crashing of the waves whispering lullabies as she lulled me to sleep each night. Last night I tossed and turned in the sand, dreaming nightmares of a vengeful mother.

It rained twice during the night, both warm showers that filled then spilled my canteen. I was able to aright it before the second rain ceased, and ended up with half a canteen of water for the day. After the unsettling night, I couldn’t stomach any fruit for breakfast.

I left early in the morning, circling around the whole of the island. I have marked the trees at regular intervals while counting my steps. I believe that the whole island is no more than 20 miles in circumference. I also found a very small stream across the island. I followed it inward for a while, but returned, not caring to ascend into the mountain of jungle. I became hungry after the activities of the day and ate a long yellow fruit. The skin is hard, but was easily removed with my knife. The inner core is soft and strange, with tiny soft seeds.

I spent most of the afternoon thinking about how I could invent a fishing rod and hook. I have carved a branch into a suitable pole and imaging that vines twisted together could act as line. The hook evades me. How did the first men create the hook? I know not. If a woman created it, then I am lost, for I understand not the workings of the mind of the fairer sex.

[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. ]