Castaway

iii

My name is Garo. If you are reading this, I'm dead. Gone. Washed away with the waves.

The way I was doomed to go from the beginning.

I was a passenger on flight 247 with Star Air Service to Moscow, Russia.

It crashed.

Here, on this island. There were no survivors, save for myself. If you are looking for any remains of the plane or your loved ones, they're gone. What wasn't already washed away, I threw into the ocean.

What you'll soon learn is that everything out here belongs to the sea.

The sea took my brother that day.

None of it matters now. I've been here at least ten months and no matter how hard I try, I can't build a raft, can't get a plane's attention, can't get out of here.

I believe the new year began a few days ago. 1923.

But really, how would I know? Time is lost to me.

I told myself I would stick it out as long as possible, but my friend, that would be a long time. There's enough food here to last a lifetime. There's fresh water in the trees. It's like some fucking Arctic paradise.

I call it hell.

I've been here long enough to forget what life back home ever felt like, and I think I've finally lost sight of the point.

Tomorrow, I'll eat as many baneberries as it takes. I just hope the heart attack is swift.

I think I'll walk this weary body to the western cliffs when I do it. They've grown to be my favourite place in the island. There will lie my body.

Perhaps you can tell my wife and daughter that I love them, as I will never again get the chance to. Tell them I am in a better place, that I will never forget them.

And that I am forever at peace with the sea.

- Garo Javionaro

The second I finish reading the letter, I collapse to my knees, every ounce of my previous joy gone.

This isn't a campsite, it's another castaway's attempt at survival.

An attempt that failed.

A new weight crushes my heart.

I really am doomed. Maybe walking the same path as Garo is the best option; eat some berries or throw myself into the ocean.

But Everett's words are forever burned into my mind. Giving up... it's the easy option—it always has been for me—but I might as well be kicking his gravestone.

Both physically and emotionally numb, I manage to gather the salvaged objects and carry them back down to the clearing.

I make a small pile of twigs and swear when the first match burns out without starting a fire. But thankfully it's dry in the inner part of the island and the twigs catch fire with the second match.

But it's a long time before I get warm.

• • •

Slowly, time blurs.

I find a journal and three more match boxes. The journal, which has been filled out by Garo, tells me what I can do and how to do it in order to survive. There is one kind of berry I can eat and four kinds I can't. There's a species of hardshell crab that lives in between the cold rocks of the shore. I need a sharpened rock to dig into the trees for water.