6th July 1930 (assumed). Mid-morning. Location: Unknown Island.
I woke early this morning. My body was stiff and sore for the beating it had taken and I was cold, but it was not this that woke me. No, what woke me from my deep, dreamless sleep was the quiet. The utter silence around me. Oh, when I listened carefully I could hear the lap of waves and the birdcalls of the nearby jungle, but the tormenting, ceaseless roar of the storm that had done it best to kill me before dumping me here had, in fact, ceased.
I opened the tent and stepped out to face a brilliant sunrise, the sky platinum bright with streaks of rose pink melting into the now calm azure sea that stretched unbroken to the horizon.
In front of me bobbed what was left of The Telesto, its fires now out, its hull now mere splintered wreckage. I waded out as far as I dare (the fall off is surprisingly deep) and dragged what I could back to shore. One largeish section of the cabin I decided to use as a shelter next to my tent where it would help keep my supplies and any firewood I could salvage dry.
By mid morning, I had rescued what I could and the ocean could have the rest. My stomach complained nosily at my lack of attention and I realised I hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty fours hours. I built up the fire and routed through the supplies. In no time at all I had some fresh coffee heating in a mug and some baked beans bubbling in a pan I had rescued from what had been the galley. Without a word of a lie, that was the best meal I have ever had in my entire life.
So, here I am, sitting by the fire and writing my journal.
My new home (for until I get off this island and back to you Rose my love, that’s exactly what this place is) is a small spit of sandy beach fronted by the wide open ocean and backed by a dense green jungle filled with God-knows-what wild creatures. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea if I’m on the route of any passing ships or planes. I have precious little food and water. I am, without a shadow of a doubt, in a sticky situation. I need a plan.
In front of me bobbed what was left of The Telesto, its fires now out, its hull now mere splintered wreckage. I waded out as far as I dare (the fall off is surprisingly deep) and dragged what I could back to shore. One largeish section of the cabin I decided to use as a shelter next to my tent where it would help keep my supplies and any firewood I could salvage dry.By mid morning, I had rescued what I could and the ocean could have the rest. My stomach complained nosily at my lack of attention and I realised I hadn’t eaten for nearly twenty fours hours. I built up the fire and routed through the supplies. In no time at all I had some fresh coffee heating in a mug and some baked beans bubbling in a pan I had rescued from what had been the galley. Without a word of a lie, that was the best meal I have ever had in my entire life.
So, here I am, sitting by the fire and writing my journal.
My new home (for until I get off this island and back to you Rose my love, that’s exactly what this place is) is a small spit of sandy beach fronted by the wide open ocean and backed by a dense green jungle filled with God-knows-what wild creatures. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea if I’m on the route of any passing ships or planes. I have precious little food and water. I am, without a shadow of a doubt, in a sticky situation. I need a plan. ****
To Be Continued...
****
Visit The Island here and follow the story as it unfolds over the next few weeks.
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