Day Seventy-One: Rebuilding the Homeland (Part Eight)

Hurriedly, I made my way toward the piles of debris, wondering if among the blackened trash there might be some waterproof fabric or plastic sheeting. Sometimes, luck does smile upon you, doesn't it?

Unfortunately, as I waded through the seawater and approached closer, I realized that what I had hoped for was nothing more than a large tangled mass of old fishing net. The net was already knotted into a compact bundle.

There was still one unused piece of fishing net left in the treehouse. I couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. Around the net were several black floats, presumably to keep the net buoyant.

This fishing net was heavy; it took considerable effort to drag it from the water. It must have been drifting on the sea for months, perhaps even years. Barnacles and algae clung to it, fully integrated with the netting. Nets submerged beneath the water’s surface invariably become breeding grounds for such growths. The barnacles were tiny; I truly had no idea how they managed to cling to this net.

Mixed in with the net were other pieces of trash, useless scraps — several plastic bags and a weathered, faded bottle. The brown bottle bore faint lettering, but regrettably, I had never seen characters like those before and certainly couldn’t read them.

I rarely pick up these opaque bottles. The last time I did, upon opening it, a foul stench erupted, and I had no idea what it had contained. I only recalled that in my childhood, pesticides were often stored in small brown plastic bottles like this. I tossed the bottle away without much thought.

Not far from there, another patch of trash lay scattered, even more disorderly, composed of many different items. From where I stood, I could see plastic bottles, scraps of wood, and so on.

After dragging the fishing net aside, I moved toward this mess. Indeed, it was a chaotic jumble — a veritable hodgepodge of everything imaginable, filthy to the extreme.

Among it were beverage bottles, oil containers, trash bins, wooden chips, unidentifiable white floating objects, plastic bags — countless pieces. I even thought I spotted a single boot.

It was astounding, really, to think that so much of civilization’s waste had found its way into the ocean. Years ago, I could never have imagined this! The pile emitted a faint, putrid stench.

Still, pinching my nose, I began sorting through it. Anything that looked usable, I selected. The previous purpose of the bottles could often be judged by their shape or the remnants of labels, though many of these were faded beyond recognition. Still, bottle identification was generally reliable. I planned to clean them thoroughly.

There were nearly thirty plastic bottles in that heap, but I chose only twelve. I couldn’t yet envision their use, but it was better to have them on hand. The wooden boards were all broken, softened by seawater and utterly useless. Some plastic bags appeared as if they had once been stuffed into the gaps of the treehouse.

Sadly, these bags had also been sun-bleached and soaked in seawater. Though they looked fine, they tore at the slightest touch and had no value left. I did pick up the lone boot, but it was just a single one. If there had been a pair — even women’s boots — I could have modified them for use. Such a pity.

Gathering my spoils together, despite their current lack of immediate use, at least I had something — I hadn’t returned empty-handed. Night was falling fast, and there was no sign of the tide receding. Once this busy period was over, I would need to dry more salt; my supply was running low.

Earlier, I had gone to check the salt-drying reef pool. It still held some rainwater that had yet to evaporate. It would likely take several more days for the water to vanish completely. I hoped for clear skies in the days ahead; another downpour would only delay the salt harvesting further.

By the time I returned to the treehouse, darkness had fully settled. It had been so long since I’d eaten coconut crab, and for some reason, I hadn’t seen any traces of them recently. Yet I longed for the rich flavor of crab meat, so I planned to wait for the night to grow even darker before venturing into the coconut grove. Of course, I would bring Little Black along; night could be dangerous, and he would bolster my courage.

Food, dried fish, cured meat — moving these in the morning and out again at night became a daily ritual. During the first few days, perhaps due to lack of rest or a heavy heart, I found the work especially exhausting. But today, after finishing, I was not even out of breath; on the contrary, I felt relatively light and refreshed.

Resting on the swing, countless thoughts flooded my mind, each one assigning tasks for the days ahead. The noise was overwhelming. To rid myself of these distractions, I knew only a few strategies: first, to fall asleep; second, to stay busy without pause; third, to find some amusement.

The first method was the simplest and most effective — but I simply could not sleep now, nor could I rely on sleep to escape every time.

I immediately dismissed the second option. That left only the third, yet I struggled to think of anything genuinely entertaining. Should I learn to juggle like Master Zhou’s left and right hands? My thoughts began to scatter again, this time searching for amusement…

Suddenly, an idea struck me. Yes, that would do. I quickly gathered a bunch of vines from inside the hut and set to work. Wrapping the vines around my hand, loop after loop, until the bundle was roughly the size of three fists, I removed it and began winding it like a coil, tightening each turn carefully. When I had used all three vines, the creation was complete.

Holding the polygonal shape, larger than my head, I felt quite satisfied. That’s right! I had made a ball — a vine ball, if you will.

Placing it on the ground, I gave it a few kicks. It was quite decent. But what made me laugh and cry was when I began testing it, Little Black came over, utterly fascinated by the ball. He would nudge it with his head as he walked, then leap and paw at it with his front legs, utterly ignoring me, completely absorbed in play.

Only after calling him several times did he bring the ball back to me. Like many dogs, he clearly enjoyed fetching. I deliberately threw the ball far away, and instinctively, he dashed after it and soon returned with it again, clearly loving the game. Fetch truly is a dog's nature.

After playing for a while, darkness was complete. I switched on my flashlight and wandered through the coconut grove with Little Black. Luck was on our side; we caught two large coconut crabs. Indeed, there were more crabs at night—we spotted at least five—but I refrained from overharvesting, taking only two, enough for our meal.

Food spoils easily here and cannot be stored long, so it’s unwise to catch too many.

Coconut crab porridge, paired with a clear-shelled coconut, felt like flying — utterly refreshing. I had learned from experience: some coconuts have cloudy, whitish juice, which is undrinkable; it causes diarrhea and stomach rumbling for days. But those with clear juice taste exquisite.

After eating my fill, I moved the fire pit into the treehouse and rekindled the flames on the lower level.

Next up was the fence... Lying on my bedding, I sank once more into deep thought.

...And the potatoes and driftwood seedlings! I’d been so busy these past days, I hadn’t checked if they were still alive.

Tomorrow, I must see to them first!