|Morning breaks on safe harbor.|
I haven't mentioned this lagoon yet. (Lord save me, I nearly wrote "my lagoon". Such arrogance.) The ocean is deep without limit, as nearly as I may perceive, so the sandy shoal here is quite a relief. Sometimes an octopus may drift in and out; other times, skeletons or other fell beasts wander through it, their speed impeded, and I may pick them off at a safe distance with my bow, collecting what they drop with convenience. But I've been thinking, the shape of this lagoon should be ideal to secure a small boat, and the shallowness of this water could only facilitating disembarking.
The resounding question: why have I not thought of crafting a boat until now?
Logistics spring to mind, of course. If I don't know how long it will take to find another island, how should I know how much victuals to store? Lacking astrolabe or sextant, even a good spyglass, how should I have faith that my vessel follows true in any direction I select? What should I find out there in the merciless, indifferent ocean: a ravenous Leviathan, or a sudden and inexorable end to the world? How can I prepare for either of these outcomes?
|Octopodes are no joke, sir.|
Tonight, however, I have committed to a course of action. Having meditated all day and at considerable length upon remaining versus journeying into the unknown, I have decided to quit this island for the time being and sail, so far as my faculty permits, in one direction until I learn something new. That may be that this world is flat and finite; it may be that larger, hungrier creatures were waiting for my impertinence; it may be that an island, several islands, or perhaps a continent await me beyond the horizon. None of this may I ascertain while remaining planted, like so much wheat, on the familiar and insular shores. And so, out of desperation for something new, anything new, I have loaded up my pack with a large stack of roast mutton, a considerable quantity of lumber and polished granite, and such implements requisite for building, farming and self-defense. This should prepare me for most contingencies, I think: I can sail in a direction and count my days in mutton, heading back when half my supply is exhausted.
Or I can start anew in any land I find. The wood and stone will go far toward a defensible shelter (though prior to this I've needed nothing more than a mean tent), and it is my hope that arable tract may be had by which to raise a sustaining crop of wheat. Failing that, I can while away weeks fishing, I'm sure, as long as the pole holds out.
I suppose it's too much to hope that the New World should have tea.