Samuel stood still, his feet sinking into the damp sand, watching the sea as if it could still swallow him whole. The sun was sinking in the sky, kinder now than at midday. The waves broke gently behind him, the foam reaching his ankles.
The first thing he thought about was the raft.
He dragged his feet back toward it, breathing heavily. The waves pushed it intermittently, farther and farther inland. If he left it there, the current could take it away again at any moment.
He bent down and pulled it with effort. The wet plastic scraped his palms, and his muscles burned. But he managed to drag it completely out of the water, several meters onto the beach. He used some large stones to secure the ropes on the sides and covered part of the interior with fallen palm fronds he found nearby.
It wasn't much. But on an unknown island, anything useful could mean the difference between life and death.
Then he sat down on the sand. He took a deep breath. Forced himself to observe calmly.
The island didn't seem large. From where he stood, he only saw low vegetation and some hills covered with dark trees. No signs of smoke, paths, or buildings. No human sounds.
Only the rhythmic singing of birds and the distant hum of insects.
He took off his shirt, still damp, and laid it out on a rock to dry in the sun. His skin ached where the sun had burned him. His lips were cracked, his tongue dry. Every swallow felt like swallowing paper.
"Water," he said softly, as if reminding himself.
"Water first. Then everything else."
He strapped the knife to his belt and began walking toward the vegetation, following the edge of the beach. He moved slowly, avoiding unnecessary energy use. At every step, he looked at the ground, the bushes, the trees: searching for something useful, something alive, something edible. But after almost an hour of walking, he found only dry branches, fallen logs, and a few small footprints in the sand that could have been from a bird or a reptile.
Further in, the vegetation grew denser. The ground was soft, covered with dry leaves. Now he walked under shade, which he appreciated. The air smelled different: heavier, greener.
He followed a sound of water by instinct. A drip. A faint murmur. But what he found was a small stagnant pond, surrounded by mud and rotten leaves. It smelled like rancid water. Not drinkable.
Discouragement began to creep into his thoughts.
"What if there's no fresh water? What if this island is just a pretty trap?"
He returned to the beach. The sun was setting, orange. Several hours had passed. His stomach hurt less, not because it calmed down, but because it was too empty to protest.
Almost by chance, as he came back to the shore, he saw something he hadn't noticed before: about a hundred meters beyond where he'd landed, several tall palm trees bent by the wind, and beneath them, scattered on the sand, were round green objects, others dry and brown.
"Coconuts," he whispered, his pulse quickening for a moment.
He walked over there with renewed energy. Upon arrival, he knelt and picked up one of the dry coconuts, lighter, with a husk covered in hair-like fibers. He had no idea if it was still good, but he needed it.
He carried three of them to a nearby rock. He found an angle and began hitting one with the knife. Not with fury. With patience. At first, nothing happened. Just scraping the surface. Then, small cracks appeared. He struck that line again and again, slowly turning the coconut.
The knife slipped once and cut his finger. Not much. But the sting made him grit his teeth.
Finally, the coconut gave way with a soft crack. Samuel opened it as best he could. Inside, a murky but translucent liquid moved. It wasn't much. But it was water. Fresh water. Or at least, not salty.
He drank without pause, straight from the coconut, both hands trembling to avoid spilling a drop. The liquid was slightly acidic, mild. Not a perfect solution, but it went down his throat like a miracle.
Then he scraped the inside with the knife, pulling pieces of white pulp. They tasted like cardboard with almond, but he didn't care. It was food. It was something.
With some energy regained, he began gathering dry branches and long sticks. He planned to build a simple shelter, just a slanted frame to shield him from the wind and sun. While searching among the bushes, he lifted a thick branch and, doing so, heard a quick, dry hiss.
There it was: a dark-scaled snake, not very large but fast, coiled just a few steps from him. Samuel reacted without thinking. He used the branch to strike it hard, once, twice, three times, until it stopped moving. Panting, he watched it.
"You didn't want this either, I know," he murmured.
He picked it up carefully with the stick and carried it back to the raft. He finished assembling his rudimentary shelter with palm leaves, crossed branches, and stones to hold the joints. Then he made a nest from dry fibers, coconut shell pieces, and thin branches.
He tried to make fire by rubbing two flat stones. It didn't work. He tried with sticks, spiral sticks. His hands blistered. The skin cracked on his knuckles. Frustrated, he collapsed on the sand.
Night was falling. The sky turned deep blue. The first stars appeared. Hunger returned, sharp, cruel.
He sat next to the snake. Took out the knife and began skinning it. He cut off the head, opened the belly, removed the guts, and threw them far away. He scraped the meat until it was clean.
He stared at it for a long while.
"It's not ideal. But I've seen this in movies. Documentaries. People surviving eating worse than this."
With resignation, he broke off a small piece and bit it. The raw meat was chewy, almost flavorless, just a cold, strange sensation. But it went down. He didn't vomit. He didn't faint. He ate a bit more. Enough.
When the sky turned completely black, he lay down inside the shelter. The knife nearby. His stomach less empty. The raft secured.
He slept in the dark. But he slept on solid ground.