Aboard the Wishbone

Chapter 8

DD.

I am locked in the hold, a tiny port hole my only source of light and air. I can hear the sailors on deck. They have been generous with food and fresh water and, blessedly, this little book in which to write. I mourn the Wet Hen, my stout little boat, and the log which went down with her during the storm and, of course, I am grateful that I survived to be rescued, even though it is by these pirates.

After Robbie's death I was bereft. I answered the call of the sea and sailed for many days. The routine and the sounds of the water and waves comforted me and healed my soul. At last I discovered that my heart was somehow lighter and I was ready for company, yet the Wet Hen was becalmed and I was forced to wait and hope for a fair wind to send me on my way. Several weeks passed before a squawl blew up to the east, and following it, a fine stiff breeze.

Then I had no time to write, just sail and sail in search of land, for my supplies of fresh food and water had become alarmingly low. After several days of clear sailing, I sighted it -- an uncharted island off the port bow, perhaps a half a day's sail away. I called it Robbie's Island and it seemed to be a deserted paradise with lush foliage and plenty of fresh water. I set up camp on shore, provisioned the boat, and planned to explore the following morning.