Five years. Five years on this damn island. My first few weeks were spent desperately trying to be rescued. I built fires, set up S.O.S signs in the sand, and used up most of the flares in the emergency kit I managed to salvage from the wreckage. After a few months I gave up any real hope of being rescued. Now all my days follow pretty much the same routine.
Wake up. Use the toilet. Have breakfast. Check on the S.O.S sign on the beach by the little hut I built. Make my way across the island, stopping to see if any of the snares I set have caught anything (usually rabbits or squirrels), and if I’m in the mood stopping for a swim in the little pool by the waterfall. Check on the S.O.S sign at the other side of the island. Have lunch. Make my way back across the island. Do maintenance around my camp. Relax for a bit. Make Dinner. Mark of a day. Go to bed. Rinse and repeat.
Five years has changed a lot. The original toilet was just a ditch dug away from pretty much everything. Now it’s a full outhouse, with a seat. No more hovering over a hole in the ground. When I first arrived I slept under a tarp stretched between two trees. Now I have a hut, with rooms, and a platform for my bed, shelves for all my stuff, and a door. There’s even a little lean to where I store firewood.
It’s not just the island and my camp that have changed in five years. I’ve changed too. Any softness I had when I arrived has gone. A lean diet, exercise, and plenty of hard work has burned off any excess fat I was carrying. I now have muscles, the hard wiry kind formed from repeated hard work. I even have a six pack. I’ve lost my pasty white complexion, I’m now a healthy tanned colour, though that didn’t happen without a few very uncomfortable episodes of sunburn.
Five years is a very long time. I’m not even sure if I want to be rescued anymore. I don’t think I could go back to the rat race after this.