The Perfect Island

"Many many years ago, when there were no visas and no border controls, and people took boats to escape and to be saved, a single-eyed sailor woke up as a sharp rush of wind slapped his salt-dry unshaven face. After another night of storms and prayers he could hardly remember who he was and where he was. He slowly walked to the upper deck. His ragged dirty clothes smelled of rum. He watched indifferently as the wind chased the early morning clouds dissipating a dazzling mantle of clouds into small white dots. "A Perfect Island". He screamed to the wind. His only eye was sufficient to recognize the point where the sea lost its monopoly to a tiny plot of land. Other sailors cried out: «Land!» The ship, that moments ago was just a kitchen board arranged for sharks, instantly became a place of brotherhood oaths, a fiesta with showers of rum and forgive-you all promises.

He was not an ordinary sailor. He was a defector. A defector, trying to get as far as he could from the Order of the Crown, protesting his innocence to all who would listen. But during the storms, he confessed his sins to God. And as storm after storm ravaged the boat he watched the falling stars, felt his clothes, plastered to his body with a glue of vomit and sweat, he understood that God had forgiven him. Then, all he needed was a piece of land where he could spend his remaining days and demonstrate to God that he was worthy of salvation.