Bermuda Island

4. Hunger

The boy had clambered down the rock slope, and jumped the last few feet onto the sand, his hope and curiosity taking over him, as he began to jump from stone to stone, making his way to the platform. His feet were aching as he reached the platform, and he threw his pack off, so as not to get it wet. He yanked his socks off as he ran, hopping awkwardly towards the black object bobbing in the water. The bare-footed, sweaty, bruised, bloody, sunburnt, boy dived straight into the cold sea water. The water was up to his abdomen, and he grabbed for the dented blue metal box. The locked door of the box had been pooped open due to a large dent in it's side, and three small minnow-like fish slipped out of the gap. Oz got a hold of a corner with his fingers, and grabbed the lip of the gap with his other hand, slightly tentative about the gap. With a loud grunt, he lugged the heavy box onto the platform, clambering up himself. The boy tugged at the dented door, but it was jammed sturdily shut. After a few pitiful attempts at opening it, he grabbed a loose rock from the side of the platform, and cracked it down hard on the blue box. This heavy work for a boy who hadn't had water for hours, was extremely tiring, and he was already panting on his third try. He knelt this time, and smashed the rock down hard with the last of his energy. There was a clang, and the door popped open. It was in that same moment that Oz realised it was one of those wheelie-box things that Air Hostesses store all the meals in when pushing the trolley up and down the plane. Oz was slightly disappointed by the contents. Sea water, sea weed, minnows and rotten food sloshed around the bottom of the box, and Oz had to turn his head and gag at the smell. Holding his breath, he looked in the drawers that survived. He found a half-drank bottle of water, a small packet of dry roasted peanuts, and two cans of coca cola. One of the cans was already being drained down his throat within a few seconds, and he ate a small handful of the peanuts gratefully. He put these things in his pack, and dragged the box onto the beach. He had an idea for the disgusting mess in the box.

When Oz had awoke from his nap, it was roughly midday. He stretched his aching muscles, and stood up in the warm sun. He felt extremely thirsty, but didn't dare drink the water, or eat any more nuts from his pack. Oz had been thinking about something ever since his discovery on the platform. The nuts wouldn't last him for long at all. They took away the edge on the dull pain in his stomach, but had barely any nutritional value, and he was getting very weak. He had been thinking of the minnows in the box. He needed more. He needed meat. There had to be larger fish in the lagoon around the beach, otherwise the lagoon would be absolutely packed with minnows; there had to be something keeping the population down. Oz had fished only twice, with his deceased father a few years ago. He understood the basics of fishing, but he wasn't what you'd call an expert. He was getting quite excited about this idea, until the realisation that he hadn't any fishing equipment struck him. He stood there for another ten minutes, wondering how he could do this. He stood, he paced, he kicked sticks, but everything that he thought of seemed impossible, unrealistic, or simply stupid.

Oz sat at the top of the slope that led to the jungle, and he stared out at the beach, watching the colossal palm trees sway gently in the light breeze. He ruffled his hair with one hand, whilst the other made trails in the sand. His fingers suddenly rolled over something rough and thin, and he looked down in a curious fashion. It was a long tendril, a dropped vine. He picked it up in boredom, twining it in and out of his fingers. It was then that Oz had found his idea.