The Twelfth Day

To the average person, a stay on an exotic island sounds sublime. Ken is an average person, had that average inclination. Not anymore. Now he sits, stranded in what he believes is the middle of the pacific on an uninhabited island. He doesn't even remember the cruise anymore. It has only been twelve days, but his memory does not extend before the day he woke up baking on this pad of sand in a sea of water. He vaguely recalls a rocky night on the cruise ship and some screaming that might have been his own. The next thing he knew, he was lying face down and soaked in unfamiliar territory.

An accountant by trade with little to no survival skills, Ken is even surprised he has made it this far. After days of eating bananas and fallen coconuts, he fastened a crude spear from a stalk of unidentified vegetation. The fish, not used to human contact, had no problems swimming close to his legs. It took all day, but he managed a fish the first day. Building a fire was the harder part. At first, he had a lighter, but it got washed away when he went swimming one day. He discovered fire using bark shavings and rubbing sticks.

Ken places the last stone in the sand and steps back to admire his handiwork. HELP, it says. He wonders if it can be seen from the sky, then clambers back to the shade of his makeshift hut. A person could get burned really quickly in the midday sun. He found that out the hard way. He takes a drink of water that he has caught from the rain using funnels made of leaves. Some it trickles down his beard.

He lies down and naps, trying to enjoy himself. It is an exotic island after all.