An Englishman Alone on a Pacific Island

On the beach with no memory or help, a man dreams of home and swims for the light

On the day before, an Englishman in India began his journey back to London. Today he woke up on a sandy beach, clothes wet and pocked with small holes and rips, and no company to be found from the ship captain to the young boy playing with pebbles on the ship deck while his parents consorted with other passengers.

Straining to recollect, the man pieced together a string of isolated memories from the moment he boarded the ship to the moment, just passed, when he awoke stranded and sea-drenched. As his mind ran through a litany of moments and instances, the sight of cigar smoke flashed in his eyes, the ashy scent returned from memory to his nose. His ears recalled the sound of a man berating a group of others below deck. Then he remembered the flash of the fire, flinching at the memory, and again he saw the innumerable arms helplessly flailing before disappearing into the water once and for all.

The man looked out into the sea from the beach. The gently undulating waters had no memories of screams and death. They had no scars from the fire.

It was April. The man thought regretfully at the blossoming trees that lined the cobble stoned streets of the London neighborhood where he lived. “No fear,” he thought. “I was sailing through these waters not days ago. Surely another ship will make its way here soon. I’ll prepare a signal.”

As the man collected dry wood, leaves, and grass, and as he sought out a high piece of ground where a signal would be visible from the most directions, he was reminded of long treks through the terrain of Afghanistan and the bustle of a soldier’s routine. A half-smile grew across his face as he piled branches in his arms.

By the end of May, no ship was seen and the signal stood solitary except for those moments when the man would replenish the grass and leaves that scattered with the wind.

In June, relentless heat was only interrupted by torrential rain. A sturdy yet crammed shelter only barely withstood the hammering wind. The man was constantly rethatching the roof with leaves from the abundance of coconut trees on the island.

The man’s shoes, sturdy as they had been in his travels, were beginning to fall apart. His jacket had no sleeves, yet he kept it for warmth. His pants had large holes in them and tearing at the base of the legs left them stringy and in waterlogged knots from the ocean. Along with his salty and scraggly hair and unchecked beard, he began to think he’d be unrecognizable. He joked to himself that he’d be passed over as a beggar or drunkard were anyone back home to see him like this. He even feared he may be accused of fraud should he claim to be the man of stature he truly was.

He looked out to sea on sunny days still hopeful of rescue. He would stand attentive for hours as waves passed softly over his dry and sandy feet. Every evening in the orange-red of the setting sun, he would walk back to his shelter inventing something new to sustain his hopes.

August passed into September, the man judged by the passing of the constellations. Now, when the man stood at the edge of the shore staring at the horizon, he did not even know what he was doing there.

The cerulean expanse that once reminded him of his lover’s eyes was now more akin to a lake of tears stretching beyond the curve of the Earth.

As he fished in the waist-high waters with a primitive spear, he wondered “why eat?” His thoughts decayed into a new language whose vocabulary had been reduced to those naked concepts of survival and pain. He tried to feel the warmth of someone’s touch, or to hear an encouraging word, but all that he felt was the bite of the wind and all he heard were the taunts of the seagulls who were free to fly where they would.

A full moon hung over a late autumn night. Perhaps it was October, maybe it was November. The moonlight danced and flickered over the gently moving water. The man sat high on the beach wondering mournfully how not one boat, not so much as a fisherman, had sailed close to the island since he became stranded.

“Have mercy on me,” the man thought as he questioned the nature of what seemed to be more like purgatory than anything earthly. Though he could feel himself drifting outside of his body, he could not thrust himself out of this captivity.

The man cataloged his transgressions hoping an outpouring of contrition and humility would be met with a morsel of divine mercy. A momentary hope was routinely followed by a sober acceptance that his efforts were in vain.

The next morning, the man awoke on the beach. It was early. A thick fog surrounded him, stretching deep beyond the shore. He brushed sand from his cheek as he yawned. Squinting, he looked into the fog. As his eyes focused, he trained on what appeared to be a faint orange glimmer.

It was dim, but he could not mistake what he saw. He sat up and stared intently. He insisted that he saw the glow of a candle and assured himself of his rescue. He was injected with the fire of faith that he need only tread into this fog and he would be delivered from this place once thought overlooked by God.

The man rushed into the water and it glided over his feet and ankles up his shins. The cold stung and the water’s weight grew as the man waded sure-footedly into the waist-deep water. He leapt into the ocean swimming out with feverish determination.

Water beaded over his eyes as he swam. He tried to keep sight of the light. His feet kicked and his arms raced back and forth pulling him ahead through the fog-cloaked waters.

He stopped to catch his breath. He wiped away the water and looked around with glaring eyes. But fog surrounded him and no light was to be found, nor sound of any ship, boat, or raft. With the spark in his eyes doused, the man let the breath out of his lungs and swam downward because it was the only way he could see.