Lost At Sea
Since dropping off the radar, so to speak, back in 1937, I spent a number of years on an island I assumed to be in the Atlantic, although the climate and vegetation suggested more of a Pacific setting. My co-pilot, Fred, died in the crash. I’m not sure how I didn’t.
I spent four days waiting to be rescued, eating the fruit I found on the island and swimming just off shore, partly for exercise, partly because I was bored and had nothing better to do than exercise.
Starting from the eighth day on, I would sometimes find what appeared to be footprints in what passed for my camp when I got back. I don’t know how we didn’t run into each other, but the Others, as I came to think of them, must have been very sneaky because I never heard or saw any of them.
On the evening of fifteenth day, I decided to explore the island. The morning of the sixteenth, I departed, bidding farewell to the Electra. I wasn’t sure if I’d see it again after venturing into the island. I didn’t know what I’d find, but I’d heard animal noises and I knew the Others were somewhere.
Turns out that while I had no fear of flying, pushing the limits in the sky, I wasn’t so brave on the ground. Each afternoon, after exploring, I’d come back to the beach. I felt safe near my plane, broken as it was.
Things took a turn for the worse on my twenty-third day on the island. I was returning to the beach after a day of exploring when I heard voices. I paused to listen and was surprised to see a small group of people coming from the beach, wielding weapons and muttering about capturing me. I assumed it was me, anyway. I was the only person I knew of at the beach. They looked angry, and when they spotted me, they hollered, and began running toward me. I turned and ran as fast as I could. I don’t know how I got away, but they weren’t very good at tracking, which would explain why it had taken three weeks to finally encounter them.
Escaping them had gotten me turned around. I couldn’t find my way back home. Sad, I think, that I’d already begun thinking of my little spot on the beach as home. For the next couple weeks, I wandered rather aimlessly. When I found a hill, I did climb, hoping to find a vantage point that would allow me to find my direction back to my plane.
It wasn’t until the forty-second day that I finally found such a spot. I clear rocky outcropping that overlooked the ocean where I could barely see the Electra. My joy, though, was short-lived. I’d been found.
I turned and looked for a place to run, but the Others, people who looked like me, but were obviously not friendly, had me cornered. As one approached, spear in hand, my heart began racing. I imagine I looked quite like a cornered animal, looking everywhere and no where all at once. I tried to take up a defensive stance, but the ground crumbled away under my back foot and I fell.
I woke to the sound of Fred’s voice, calling me back to consciousness. He smiled at me and asked if I was okay. I blinked away the fog, sat up, and looked around. We were sitting on a bench outside the church from back home. Fred helped me to my feet, and began walking me to the church door, telling me he was glad I’d finally found my way home.