Day Seventeen: The Drift Bottle by the Sea

Yesterday, after a hearty meal, Little Black woke up quite late today. Early in the morning, I fashioned a door for the "hut," since it gets rather cold at night without one. The door was constructed from neatly arranged branches I gathered, woven and bound tightly with vines. Finally, I secured it to the hut with more vines, ensuring that the cold wind would no longer find its way inside at night.

The drainage ditch surrounding the hut was also widened and deepened with my Swiss Army knife—at least twenty centimeters deep now. I no longer worry about the rain.

Having tended to these chores, I prepared to take Little Black to the beach, hoping to find some useful items washed ashore.

Little Black frolicked along the shore, digging at the sand and darting through the surf. Watching his lively antics, it was hard to reconcile this energetic creature with the despondent companion he had been at first. Perhaps, I thought, I am much the same.

Lately, I have resigned myself to fate. Little Black’s arrival gradually eased my loneliness and sorrow, and my spirits have lifted considerably.

Today's finds were promising. Even after just a few hundred meters of beachcombing, I discovered several good things: a handful of plastic bottles, a few mismatched shoes—none paired, but wearable. There was also another tattered fishing net and some broken wooden planks.

But what truly excited me was a large waterproof sheet, bigger than my entire roof. With this, my roof would be completely covered, and I’d never have to worry about leaks again.

The beach teemed with tiny crabs, and Little Black chased them playfully. As I bent to search for more treasures, barking suddenly rang out.

Thinking Little Black was in danger, I turned instantly, only to see him running toward me, carrying a bottle in his mouth.

Examining the bottle, I found it was glass—perhaps a message in a bottle. Inside were two sheets of folded paper.

I twisted the cap open and unfolded one sheet, finding it densely covered in tiny writing.

Seeing familiar script rekindled a spark of interest in my lonely heart. Sitting down on the sand, I placed the bottle beside me and carefully spread out the paper.

To my luck, it was written in my native language.

The letter was lengthy; it took me nearly an hour to read it all.

Its message was simple: The sender’s name was Mengmeng. She was only ten years old when she cast the bottle adrift. Sadly, she had leukemia and knew she wouldn’t live much longer, having overheard her parents’ conversation.

Yet, she remained optimistic, feigning ignorance to spare her parents heartbreak. Quietly, she penned this letter.

She wrote for two reasons: to express thoughts she dared not voice, and in hope that some divine being might find the letter and grant her life an extension.

She also mentioned that the second paper bundle contained a batch of seeds. If someone were to find them, she hoped they would plant them and, if possible, send them to her—the address listed at the bottom.

After reading it, a tide of emotions swept over me—the innocence of a child, the courage of her heart.

“Don’t worry, I will help you. If I ever get out, I will deliver what I grow to you myself!”

Stumbling upon this letter strengthened my will to survive. Perhaps I too should greet each day with her optimism.

Little Black continued to play on the shore, but my enthusiasm for treasure hunting had vanished. Calling him, he dutifully returned to my side, and together we made our way back to the hut.

It’s often said that the weather at sea changes in an instant, and the island was no exception. Moments ago the sun was shining and the breeze gentle; now, a vast, dark cloud drifted overhead.

I quickened my pace, knowing the rain would be heavy, hoping to secure the waterproof sheet as my roof before it began.

Alas, my plans fell through; the rain started before I reached the hut.

Fortunately, it wasn’t too fierce.

Little Black, disliking the rain, abandoned me and dashed for the hut in a flash.

By the time I returned, soaked nearly through, Little Black was already curled up in his nest.

“Heartless creature…” I muttered.

His nest, which I had made for him—a little travel suitcase lined with dry grass and vines—was his favorite place, where he slept soundly every day.

Originally, I wanted to place the waterproof sheet beneath the coconut palm leaves, but with the rain pouring harder, there was no time.

So I simply draped the sheet over the roof.

It was huge, and after covering the hut, I thought to rest.

But a small accident required me to go back outside.

The waterproof sheet was so large that its edges rested directly against the hut, causing rainwater to flow down and, following the branches stuck in the ground, seep inside.

There was nothing for it; I needed several thicker branches to prop up the sheet and create an eave.

After nearly an hour outside, I returned at last.

The branches I chose with care, each positioned along the hut, fitted into holes I’d dug with my knife.

I punched several holes in the corners of the sheet, threading vines through and binding the waterproof sheet firmly to the branches.

Finally, rain no longer flowed into the hut. Water dripped onto the sheet, running along its low, branch-supported edge in streams, cascading like waterfalls to the drainage ditch and onward through the channels.

“Sigh, it’s raining again. I really hate rain now—when it rains, nothing can be done,” I grumbled.

Luckily, I habitually stored food in the hut—mostly the juicy, fragrant, and sweet red fruit from the nearby tree, and the coconut crab caught last night.

The rain grew heavier, but inside our hut the fire flickered, the gaps between branches nearly sealed with vines, so neither I nor Little Black felt the chill outside.

The aroma of coconut crab drew Little Black, who devoured the whole thing, leaving me with just fruit. Well, he never cared for fruit, after all.

After eating, I lay down and drifted to sleep amidst the sound of rain.

Just moments ago, I was startled awake by a thunderous noise—the rain pounding like machine gun fire.

The wind howled; the waterproof sheet snapped and fluttered.

To be honest, I felt anxious. Opening the door, I peered toward the sea.

Through the gaps in the coconut trees, I thought I saw a light!

A ship!

It was a ship!

To be sure, I looked again.

But it was gone—nothing there.

Had I imagined it?