Day Thirty-Five: Rebirth (Part One)

“Whoosh.” “Ha.” The air by the sea is truly wonderful!

Yes, I am in an excellent mood.

My illness has finally passed; though I still lack a bit of strength, this feeling of rebirth is extraordinary.

I lay bedridden for two whole days, even lost consciousness at one point. Luckily, my immune system spared me from misfortune.

Am I truly lucky? Not really.

The rain only stopped this morning. My little hut, after days of fierce winds and torrential storms, has become terribly fragile—so much so that when I pushed open the door this morning, it collapsed.

I wasn’t hurt, but it nearly scared Blackie out of its wits...

With a crash, the hut fell, and the sleeping Blackie was trapped beneath. It yelped wildly, kicking its legs in panic. I couldn’t help but laugh, though I didn’t hesitate; even knowing the weight wouldn’t harm Blackie, I rushed over and dug it out at once.

Once free, it still looked shaken, retreating a good distance before stopping to stare at the fallen hut.

Surprisingly, I felt no panic at all. Often, after surviving a catastrophe or escaping death, people are flooded with a sense of satisfaction. I suppose that’s what I’m feeling now.

Such contentment has washed away any displeasure, any worries.

“If it collapses, I can rebuild it; if the fire dies, I can rekindle it; if food runs out, I can find more!”

Indeed, freed from the grip of illness, my outlook has suddenly become optimistic.

With Blackie at my side, I strolled leisurely to the beach, chewing on a stem of wild grass plucked from the roadside.

The morning air was as comfortable as spring. The sea breeze swept by, lifting my hair, uncut for ages.

Of course, in the days gone by, I still bathed and washed my hair in the river, but after falling ill, I haven’t dared to wash—having just recovered, my resistance is low, and I have no wish to endure that ordeal again.

I sat on the sand, gazing at the undulating sea, my heart utterly tranquil. But after a while, the view grew monotonous and tiring.

So I simply lay back on the beach. The sand, warmed by the rising sun, felt gently comforting against my back.

“If only every day could be as pleasant as this,” I thought, staring at the sky, blue once more.

Blackie ran about the beach, restless after days of confinement, unable to sit still for a moment.

The hut’s quality was truly poor; my knowledge too scant, leading me to build such a shelter.

In this peaceful environment, my thoughts became exceptionally clear.

I realized I would never build another hut in the same place, nor in the same way.

Not only because of painful memories, but because my needs have changed.

Now, a plan is forming in my mind. Before, in my panic, I acted only to survive. But just now, I recalled a post I’d once seen.

The author’s name escapes me, but I remember he was a sailor who had documented his days on a deserted island in great detail.

Gradually, more memories surfaced.

He was an outdoors enthusiast, seeking the thrill of survival. He ventured alone, carrying only a few items, searching for fresh water, building shelters, hunting for food...

But I can’t recall the specifics...

Damn! I shook my head hard.

I only vaguely remember that he distilled seawater to obtain fresh water. Compared to him, I am fortunate—fresh water is not a problem for me.

I wish I could remember how he built his shelter, how he fished...

But I simply can’t recall. The frustration is agonizing, like searching endlessly for something desperately needed.

Never mind. I shook my head.

A hut must be built.

Time is pressing.

I’ve rested long enough. I pushed myself up from the sand.

First, I must go back and gather anything useful.

While returning through the woods, I suddenly stopped.

I came upon a spot slightly elevated from its surroundings and saw five large trees nearby, close together. If I connected four of them, they would form a perfect rectangle.

I paced out the distance—it was about three meters each side.

It seemed that sailor had also built his hut among the trees. Suddenly, fragments of memory flickered again.

Yet a problem remained: how would I connect them?

But my worries were soon eased as I looked around.

After days of wind and rain, several small trees in the distance were leaning or toppled, some lying on the ground, others draped over neighboring trees.

Still, the number before me was far from enough.

But I wasn't concerned; there were several small trees I’d dragged to my previous hut as well.

If I could use these small trees to build a treehouse among the big ones, with a rooftop terrace, a fire below, a pile of firewood, and a swing made from vines—wouldn’t life be delightful?

My blood surged; the idea was irresistible. I could feel excitement bursting into every cell.

Let’s do it!

Step one: materials!

Though my mind was clear, I hesitated to exert myself—fresh out of illness, I feared sweating. So I carefully dragged four small trees from my old hut, taking my time.

I patted the trunks—thump, thump, thump. Of course, I wasn’t foolish enough to treat them like watermelons; I wasn’t testing their ripeness, but their sturdiness. The sound proved their solid core; had they rotted, the sound would be different.

Two of these small trees had served as the sides of my bed. I stripped off the vines and dismantled them.

The next task was to find more vines and small trees or thick branches.

Vines weren’t hard to come by—scarce here, but abundant at the foot of the mountain.

The only difficulty was small trees; I needed a lot.

After all, I desired comfort, not mere adequacy.

Since I’ve decided, I must finish, even if I cry along the way.

The toppled trees here were not easy to harvest, their roots still attached.

With a Swiss army knife and a wrench from my toolbox, I cut and hammered until I finally hauled all the small trees back.

Still not enough—I wanted as many as possible. With time on my side, I began to search everywhere.

Once I gathered enough small trees, I would begin to build my new home with my own hands!