Castaway

Chapter 5: The island

Sidney awoke to the sound of the water gently lapping at his feet. He was lying on a soft feather bed, the back of his neck being warmed by an intense, soothing heat. He was still clinging onto the plank of wood from the ship, but when he opened his eyes, all he could see were grains of sand. Minute, tiny grains, thousands, millions of them. He sifted the warm sand idly through his fingers, totally unaware of his surroundings. Slowly, he lifted his head. Before him, all he could see was an endless expanse of sand, rocks and, in the distance, a clump of dense forest. He shifted himself carefully onto his elbows then – with difficulty – onto his knees, his whole body aching sharply from the effort. Still clutching onto his wooden life raft, he staggered uncomprehendingly up the beach. Where was he? Memories of the stormy night on board ship flashed through his brain. Perhaps he had died after all. Perhaps this was paradise.

It certainly had the appearance of paradise. In front of him was a lush green jungle, behind him a limitless stretch of glittering blue ocean. Yet, as he stumbled towards the trees, he felt a foreboding, a sense of trepidation. Who – or what – was lurking inside that dense forest? Was he all alone? And, if so, how was he going to survive?

Luckily for him, Sidney Parker was no effete dandy, no sophisticated man about town. The eight years he had spent in Antigua in his blighted youth had been a harsh initiation into the basic tenets of survival. True, in the Indies, he had servants to wait on him, but he had also spent many a day out in the sugar cane fields, out on horseback in the burning sun, tending to his workers' needs. He knew how the slaves lived – how they eked out a living in their tiny wooden huts, cooking over open fires, supplementing their meagre rations with bushmeat poached from the forest and tropical fruits shaken from the trees. Now he would have to put some of this secondhand knowledge to use.

He ventured timidly towards the tall bank of trees ahead. A loud screeching sound could be heard from the uppermost branches. He caught a glimpse of a long tail and a small bundle of black and white fur swinging through the trees, followed by more screeching, as if the creatures were squabbling amongst themselves. Then suddenly, as if by Providence, something dropped out of the sky and landed at his feet. Something heavy and oval-shaped, covered in a hard brown skin. He picked it up and shook it gently, listening as the liquid sloshed around inside. He grinned to himself. He had seen one of these fruits before. He chuckled out loud at his good fortune, then stopped short as the sound of his laughter echoed eerily through the trees.

Making his way cautiously through the forest, his wet clothes still clinging to his back, his throat parched, he searched desperately on the ground for something, anything, that he could use as a tool to pierce the coconut and extract its sweet nectar. Eventually he came upon a mound of rocks and, perching atop them, lifted up his prize, smashing it onto the rocks. To no avail. He tried twice, thrice more and soon enough a crack appeared in the surface but it took many more attempts before he broke through the hard outer shell and even longer before he finally stripped away the coarse fibres and smashed the fruit into two. He cried out in frustration as some of the liquid fell to the ground, quickly tilting the bowl towards his lips and gratefully gulping down its thin, white milk. Then he tore at the sweet flesh, cramming it hungrily into his mouth.

His thirst sated for now, his eyes darted around him, conscious that he had stumbled far into the unknown depths of the jungle, unaware of his course, ignorant of the dangers. But there was no sound except the far-off screech of monkeys, the squawk of birds and a shuffling noise in the undergrowth. Scrambling on the ground, he picked up a few sharp stones, buried them in the pockets of his breeches and hurried back the way he had come, towards the beach. The explorations could wait for another day; for now, he needed to sleep. He hollowed out a nest for himself underneath the trees closest to the shoreline and, one ear cocked for inquisitive creatures and one eye open for a passing ship, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

Over the days and weeks that followed, Sidney made a thorough exploration of the island – for an island it was – but did not encounter another living being. Not a human being anyway. The island was small, two miles across he calculated, covered in dense vegetation and populated by colourfully exotic birds and noisy primates. He sharpened the stones and flints he had found into effective tools, perfected his coconut smashing technique and, when it finally rained, managed to catch some precious drops of water in the empty coconut shells. On the fifth day, he even managed to spear a fish, before realising he had no way of cooking it. It took him another week, after hours and hours spent rubbing a stick against a piece of wood, his hands sore and bleeding, and many cries of frustration and anguish, before he finally managed to create a spark, hastily grabbing the coconut fibre to catch the flame.

Finally, he had fire! He could not ever remember experiencing such unalloyed joy and blessed relief. He managed to spear two fish that day, cooked them on the fire and ripped away the flesh, devouring them greedily, then fell asleep, fully sated. But when he awoke, it was cold and dark and the fire had gone out. Cursing his stupidity, the next day he started all over again and, from that point on, always kept a tinder nest of coconut fibre, tree bark and leaves burning.

Daily, he scanned the horizon for passing ships but the horizon was always empty, void of any sign of human life. He became proficient at catching fish and once or twice even managed to spear a small monkey with a rudimentary arrow he had fashioned, skinning and roasting its flesh on the fire. He gorged daily on the many tropical fruits that abounded on the island – coconut, banana, breadfruit and mango. Yet he grew thin. His clothes fell off him, disintegrating into rags as the months went by, his hair grew long and his beard matted. He slept in a makeshift hammock among the trees until one night when a fierce tropical storm devastated parts of the island and he was forced to seek shelter in a cave. Here, he fashioned a little home for himself, sleeping on banana leaves, marking off the days on a rudimentary calendar that he scratched into a wooden post and daubing words and images on the walls of the cave using charcoal sticks from the fire.

By day, he was always occupied, hunting for sustenance, collecting rainwater, keeping the fire burning or simply swimming in the sea, floating on his back and gazing up at the bright blue firmament, but at night his mind was often prey to dark thoughts. How long was he condemned to spend here? His whole life? Would he end his days on this beautiful but lonely island? Would he ever see his family again? Some nights he was haunted by the image of Eliza, sinking down into the depths of the ocean, stretching out her hand to him. Yet he had chosen not to follow. On other nights, he was visited by the mesmerising image of the beautiful, dark-haired mermaid. He knew very well who that lovely vision was. Where was she now, he wondered, what was she doing, was she married, did she have children? Would he ever be blessed by God to see her in the flesh again, in this life? Or would he have to wait until the life to come for their reunion? To stop his mind from wandering to dark, lonely places, Sidney gathered shells and seaweed from the beach and, using charcoal and a little blood, recreated her face, her body and her fishlike tail on the walls and floor of the cave, many times over. At night, she watched over him and in the daytime, he talked to her, telling her his plans for the day, asking her questions, anything to stop him going mad and to hear the sound of his own voice, to know that he was alive. On some of his darkest days, she was the only thing that kept him going, and at night, her crooked smile watched over him as he slept.

The months drifted into years and still no ship came. Sidney began to wonder if he was indeed still on God's earth or whether he had entered some strange alternate universe, the dreaded Devil's Triangle. Then finally, one day, he was wading in the shallows, hunting fish, when he thought he glimpsed a dot on the horizon. Squinting into the distance (his eyes were beginning to fail him), he could just make out the prow of a ship, far out to sea. He ran back to shore and gathered up his tinder nest, blowing it into a flaming torch and waving it frantically above his head, attempting to holler and whoop, although the sound that emerged from his throat was thin and feeble. But the ship drifted away, disappearing over the horizon.

Dejected, Sidney sat down on the shore and, for the first time since the day he had been washed up on the island, he cried. Hot, salty tears, full of sadness and longing. And yet, at least he now knew – or thought he knew – that this was not a dream, not an illusion. He was real. He was alive. And surely, one day, another ship would appear on the horizon, and next time he would be found, next time he would be saved, next time he would be picked up and taken back to England.