Prompt Response Collection

07.06.2016
Prompt: While surfing, he was swept away by a wave and he found himself in...

...the surf at the edge of an island that could not possibly exist, although he didn't yet know that. He was a strong swimmer but he had fallen to exhaustion long ago and was only now coming to in the shallows of a beach he did not recognize. Dragging himself through the gentle lapping waves, flotsam and jetsam swirling around him, he didn't have the presence of mind to wonder how he'd gotten there. Once more safely above the the waterline, the surfer collapsed again in the sand.

Hours later, he awoke. It was early morning. His mouth was parched, his skin sticky with salt and sand in his hair made his scalp itch. He rose to his feet and looked about. From where he stood, the shore appeared to belong to a small, wooded island and not too far off, a stream entered the ocean. Thirst satisfied, he observed his surroundings once more. Unfamiliar birdsong mingled with the sound of the ocean and a gentle breeze cooled him but the sun was still beating. He retreated into the forest in search of shelter and food.

When evening came, the surfer returned to the beach to watch the sunset. Wilderness survival was not something he'd ever been interested in and he found himself regretting that now. He'd found little to eat, just some berries he didn't recognize and he was afraid to try them. As for shelter, he didn't know the first thing about building a shelter but he did put together a pile of branches and leaves as a nest. He heard gorillas in Africa did that, it couldn't be that bad right? Before the sun was completely set, he returned to his nest and settled in for the night.

On the second day, he woke feeling stiff and achy and very very hungry. After drinking from the stream, he returned to the beach. He was quite surprised to find a small collection of fish wrapped neatly in sea grass on the shore. He searched for whoever had left it but found no trace of them, not even footprints in the sand. His next order of business was deciding whether to eat the fish raw or try to start a fire. He'd been in the Boy Scouts as a young boy and remembered the basics behind making a fire with a bow and trough.

At the end of the day, he had himself a respectable fire on the beach and he'd cooked the fish. The first had been burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. It was disgusting but he ate it anyway. The second he seared and ate one small bit at a time, like a marshmallow you catch on fire to eat the crispy outside and then repeat the process. It wasn't much better than the raw fish. By the time he got to the last one, there was a nice pile of ash and coals in the bottom of his fire so he buried it there and went in search of more firewood. It was while he sat near the water, enjoying his ashy but properly cooked fish when he saw the biggest fish he'd ever seen! There was nothing, he blinked and then there was a huge tail disappearing under the water. He didn't get a good look at it but it got him thinking. That night, he lay in his nest thinking of how he might catch his own fish.

09.08.2016

On the third day, the sun rose to greet the surfer from behind a blanket of mist and clouds. The surfer shivered and climbed out of his nest. His short walk to the stream warmed his muscles and got his underfed belly to complaining. First on his to do list, aside from stoking his fire back to life, find a good spear-making stick. Spear fishing did not sound like something he would be good at but neither did he think he could make a net. Second on his to do list, find a sharp rock with which to turn the stick into a spear. Once he had accomplished both tasks, he retreated to the relative comfort of his nest at the edge of forest and began his work.

By midday the sun had chased away the clouds and he had made for himself a very rudimentary spear. The surfer even thought to make a hook on one side but it turned out more like a notch. He decided to be hopeful if not confident of its utility. He took a deep breath, psyched himself up and marched down to the beach where he had seen the huge fish. Wading into the water with very careful steps, so as not to disturb any fish that might be around, he looked for any sign of lunch.

As it turned out, there were quite a few suitable fish around his beach, which was very lucky because he was not very good at catching them. Given the number of fish, he was bound to catch at least one and he did. Triumphantly, he threw the fish onto shore and went for another. Within a few hours, he had caught two small fish, their bodies about the length of his hand. He wanted to continue fishing but he was growing weary. He collected the first from shore and took both back to his fire. It was mid afternoon; his fire had a good solid bed of coals and this time, he wrapped the fish in a thick layer of leaves before burying them in his primitive "oven".

The surfer listened to the evening birds singing as the sun drew closer to the horizon. The insects buzzed and chirped but luckily, few of them seemed to be of the biting type. He had explored many of the near shore islands around his home and never heard these birds before or seen these trees. Sadness dampened the success of his day as he thought about how he would get home when he didn't even know where home was. He ate both fish, fearing they would spoil quickly, and then went to bed early.

Over next several days, the surfer quickly grew tired of spear fishing. He managed to fashion a net from cordage he harvested in the forest and weighted the corners with stones. It worked much better than the spear. And the forest was home to a strange bulbous plant. After some experimenting, he was able to form several cups out of one. He was able to keep a small stash of fresh water with him at his nest after that. The surfer discovered that as much as he hated the gritty feeling on his skin, covering his shoulders with mud helped protect from sunburn. He fell into a routine and tried to find a balance between keeping hope and falling into depressive ruminations about home.

Twice more his mysterious and shy friend left gifts of fish but he did not see the enormous fish he'd spotted on his second day. He wished his companion on the island would come out from hiding so he would not feel so alone.

On the eighth evening, he was was trying to enjoy the gift left to him that morning but ominous clouds collected on the horizon weighing down his mood. He had not attempted to build a better shelter and regretted it then. In the waning light, he collected as much firewood as he could find and lacking another source of shelter, buried it within the waxy leaves of his nest. He did not have a shelter but he had improved his nest quite a bit. It was far more padded and though it would be uncomfortable to sleep with the firewood, he thought it would keep the vital resource dry when the rain inevitably came.

The birds did not sing that evening. The insects lay silently in their burrows and webs and nests. When the rain arrived, it was ice cold and driven by a violent howling wind. The surfer tried in vain to keep his fire going. He was no match for the raging storm and quickly abandoned the task in favor of hiding among the broad-leafed trees near his camp. Small tree branches, leaves and debris from the forest floor flew past at alarming speed. Raindrops like pebbles pelted his bare arms even through the canopy. The surfer found no rest that night.

Sunrise on the ninth day felt like a miracle. The surfer had feared he wouldn't make it but the sky was clear, the sun bright. All around him, evidence of the storm transformed the once tranquil beach into a disaster zone. Fallen tree limbs scattered the beach, his meager stream was flooded and silty, where once stood his fire, nothing but muddy ash was left. His nest was all but destroyed and the firewood within mostly waterlogged. The cups he'd made from the bulb plant were nowhere to be found and his net was tangled in a tree nearby.

There was much to do, despite his aching muscles and bruised skin. He took apart what was left of his nest and spread it out on the sand to dry alongside the firewood. Next, he wrestled the net free and gathered what cordage he could find before heading down to a rocky outcrop he'd found barely two days earlier. His hope was that tide pools there might hold a fish washed ashore during the storm as they often had at home, assuming no other animal had claimed such a prize for itself yet. The rocks would also dry off faster than the beach and he looked forward to feeling warm and dry while he mended the net.

AN: Just one more part to go, I think. But not tonight.