The wind that had, the night before, turned the sea into a violent mountain range completely abandoned it now. The Caribbean stood practically stagnant, its tiny ripples casting shadows on one another under the pink sun, only half of which had pulled itself over the horizon. Even the seagulls didn’t disturb the serenity. They returned silently to their perches atop isolated palm trees scattered across myriads of tiny islands.
Though none of the exhausted trees had seen such a storm as the previous night brought, the sun had seen plenty. Its view of the deep blue sea and the little islands was almost the same as it had been from the dawn of time. Almost.
Unlike the sun, the man that woke up that morning was very unused to rising in the middle of the sea. His cheek, smeared with blood, was pressed against the dashboard of a small airplane. Sharp fragments of his former windshield lay all around the cockpit and on the small island he had “landed†on.
He struggled out of the cockpit and cursed as he found his leg was broken. He struggled to his feet and fell down. He crawled to his island’s single tree and leaned against it. He remained that way for hours, staring into the horizon, and then dragged himself over to the plane as the sun set.
The next morning his plane’s seat was badly mutilated. Most of the cloth had been removed and was draped over the man’s body next to the tree like a blanket even though the night had stayed at eighty degrees.
That day the man caught a fish. He’d done it using a large piece of glass. He sat in the water for about an hour, waiting, observing their reactions to his movement, and then killed one. He ate all of it but the bones.
The sun came up to find, for the third time, a man stranded on that island. Today he tore the airplane’s engine apart looking for things to throw at the tall tree to dislodge some of the coconuts. He finally got one down and cracked it open very carefully and thirstily slurped up all of its milk.
On the fourth day the man caught another fish and drank coconut milk. On the fifth day he caught two and got one coconut; on the sixth he caught a fish and it rained.
On the seventh day the man sat down against the tree and cried. He went to sit in his mutilated airplane seat and cried some more. Suddenly his expression changed to one of delight. He pulled a red notebook from under his seat. Pulling a black pen from its spiral binding, he began to write.
The next day he caught a fish and drank water he’s collected from the coconut shells, and spent the rest of the day writing. He’d already filled twenty pages of the notebook.
The day after that and the following one he did the same, but on the eleventh one a storm came in. He tore some leather off the back of his seat and wrapped the notebook in it and then covered that with some palm branches. After the storm it was dry.
A week past and the man had been almost nothing but writing. Every once in a while he would pick up the notebook and throw it against the tree, but he would immediately pick it back up and caress it, as if to apologize. He slept with it at night under his blanket. On the twentieth day something very different happened. The man woke up and snapped the notebook open and began scribbling with the black pen, but then stopped and shook the pen. He tried to draw circles on a blank page rapidly, but still no ink came out. He gave a howl of anguish. He spent the rest of the day trying to make it work.
The following two days the man sat crying, eating nothing, drinking the slight drizzle on the latter day. On the twenty-fourth day, the black pen lay buried deep in his throat, the notebook open on his lap, its pages stained the color of the man’s clothes.
On the fiftieth day, a violent storm that tore down some trees came. The sea flooded, and by the time the storm went, the man was gone, but the plane remained, keeping the tree company.
The wind that had, the night before, turned the sea into a violent mountain range completely abandoned it now. The Caribbean stood practically stagnant, its tiny ripples casting shadows on one another under the pink sun, only half of which had pulled itself over the horizon. Even the seagulls didn’t disturb the serenity. They returned silently to their perches atop isolated palm trees scattered across myriads of tiny islands.
Though none of the exhausted trees had seen such a storm as the previous night brought, the sun had seen plenty. Its view of the deep blue sea and the little islands was almost the same as it had been from the dawn of time. Almost.
Unlike the sun, the man that woke up that morning was very unused to rising in the middle of the sea. His cheek, smeared with blood, was pressed against the dashboard of a small airplane. Sharp fragments of his former windshield lay all around the cockpit and on the small island he had “landed†on.
He struggled out of the cockpit and cursed as he found his leg was broken. He struggled to his feet and fell down. He crawled to his island’s single tree and leaned against it. He remained that way for hours, staring into the horizon, and then dragged himself over to the plane as the sun set.
The next morning his plane’s seat was badly mutilated. Most of the cloth had been removed and was draped over the man’s body next to the tree like a blanket even though the night had stayed at eighty degrees.
That day the man caught a fish. He’d done it using a large piece of glass. He sat in the water for about an hour, waiting, observing their reactions to his movement, and then killed one. He ate all of it but the bones.
The sun came up to find, for the third time, a man stranded on that island. Today he tore the airplane’s engine apart looking for things to throw at the tall tree to dislodge some of the coconuts. He finally got one down and cracked it open very carefully and thirstily slurped up all of its milk.
On the fourth day the man caught another fish and drank coconut milk. On the fifth day he caught two and got one coconut; on the sixth he caught a fish and it rained.
On the seventh day the man sat down against the tree and cried. He went to sit in his mutilated airplane seat and cried some more. Suddenly his expression changed to one of delight. He pulled a red notebook from under his seat. Pulling a black pen from its spiral binding, he began to write.
The next day he caught a fish and drank water he’s collected from the coconut shells, and spent the rest of the day writing. He’d already filled twenty pages of the notebook.
The day after that and the following one he did the same, but on the eleventh one a storm came in. He tore some leather off the back of his seat and wrapped the notebook in it and then covered that with some palm branches. After the storm it was dry.
A week past and the man had been almost nothing but writing. Every once in a while he would pick up the notebook and throw it against the tree, but he would immediately pick it back up and caress it, as if to apologize. He slept with it at night under his blanket. On the twentieth day something very different happened. The man woke up and snapped the notebook open and began scribbling with the black pen, but then stopped and shook the pen. He tried to draw circles on a blank page rapidly, but still no ink came out. He gave a howl of anguish. He spent the rest of the day trying to make it work.
The following two days the man sat crying, eating nothing, drinking the slight drizzle on the latter day. On the twenty-fourth day, the black pen lay buried deep in his throat, the notebook open on his lap, its pages stained the color of the man’s clothes.
On the fiftieth day, a violent storm that tore down some trees came. The sea flooded, and by the time the storm went, the man was gone, but the plane remained, keeping the tree company.
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