Day Sixty: An Attempt on a Rainy Day (Part Two) An extra update for the reader known as “One Thirty.”

Below the treehouse, there was a large pile of vines; material was not an issue. “Snap!” Yet another failed creation was tossed aside by me. I had lost count of how many times I’d failed; now a restless impatience had taken over me completely. The more agitated I became, the worse things turned out. This wasn’t the kind of work that could be rushed—delicate tasks required patience, and in my current state of mind, success was nearly impossible.

I took several deep breaths but still couldn’t calm myself. The memories in my mind weren’t enough to guide me through the weaving; I was missing so many small details that I had to figure out on my own. The string of failures left my head throbbing. In my frustration, I didn’t even bother picking up the half-finished pieces I’d thrown away. Instead, I grabbed a cup from the table, poured in some honey, added cold water, and stirred it with a spoon before making my way to the upper floor entrance of the treehouse, where I sat down carelessly.

Though it was raining hard today, the wind was mild. Sitting there, only the occasional raindrop splashed onto me, but it didn’t matter. The coolness at the doorway, mixed with the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil outside, slowly soothed my irritation and restlessness.

The taste of honey water was delightful. In the civilized world, this level of sweetness would have been called “half sugar”—just enough for the tongue to sense the sweetness, but not so strong as to become cloying, no matter how much I drank. Maybe it was because I’d squeezed some pollen into the honey as well; besides the sweetness, the flavor was rich with the scent of wildflowers. Especially when I opened the honey jar, the fragrance was almost criminally tempting—if I hadn’t restrained myself, I would have gulped down a mouthful right then and there.

That aroma seemed to have a clinging quality, lingering in my nose—indeed, throughout my entire respiratory system—for a long time. It was almost a kind of torture!

Time slipped by quietly as my thoughts grew calm. I sipped the honey water slowly, as if savoring tea, taking a small mouthful and then a breath, but the effect was profound. The fluctuations in my mood vanished in this tranquil state.

“Believe you can do it!”—a simple phrase, my reason soothing me.

“Yes, isn’t that what I’ve always thought? From having nothing, I’ve come to this treehouse, a garden, seeds of hope planted, a yard... I’ve achieved so much!”

The old me would never have believed I could do any of this. Even if someone had told me that one day I would survive alone on a deserted island, I would have scoffed.

But now, I truly had done it. I had survived on this island for so long. I knew a great deal of it was luck, but even so, I had accomplished things my former self could never have imagined.

So why was I still frustrated? What was there to be irritable about? Time was just a concept for me now. Food, at least in the short term, was no worry—I’d been working hard to secure it. The treehouse that sheltered me from wind and rain had been reinforced...

Yes, I should go back and study this again. That’s right—if I do it this way, this carrying basket should finally work!

With a newfound calm, my mind grew sharp and inventive again, finding new methods from past mistakes. Refreshed, I returned to the lower level of the treehouse and began weaving once more, confident this was the optimal approach. I hoped for success this time.

I started by cutting several vines into segments, each sixty centimeters long, for a total of ten pieces. I divided them into two groups of five. Previously, I’d tried crisscrossing all ten and binding them together, but it hadn’t worked well. This time, I used my Swiss Army knife to carefully slice through the middle of one group of five vines—not all the way through, just enough to make slits. This step was crucial and required great care.

Laying the five vines side by side, I threaded the other five through the slits, forming a cross shape—the base for the basket. With a thin vine, I fixed the cross shape in place, binding the two groups securely together. Two slender vines were enough to hold them tight; a gentle tug showed no movement.

This was the most critical step. The rest was more monotonous, requiring repeated wrapping and binding. Winding the vine in an S-shape back and forth, the cross shape gradually spread apart. Each round of wrapping separated the twenty vine ends further, but since the center was tightly bound, the ends only fanned out more and more.

As I wound more vines around, the frame of the basket bottom took shape, about thirty centimeters in diameter. The hard part was done—now I needed to raise the twenty vine ends upright, letting the woven vines hold them in place...

Round after round, I continued wrapping, and soon the basket took form. At this point, I bent down the excess length of the original ten vines and wove them back and forth into the gaps below.

Finally, I chose two vines and, after threading them through, fixed them atop the basket as handles.

And so, the vine basket was finished in my hands—my very first creation. Though it wasn’t perfectly symmetrical and looked a bit crooked, I was immensely proud. There was no artificial processing, no paint, just pure vinework. In my excitement, I grew curious about its sturdiness.

I placed a large piece of cured meat inside, and the basket lifted easily, showing no sign of breaking. Then I added the fire axe, pistol, knife, salt, drinks—a whole pile of things. In the end, I even stacked all the remaining drinks inside.

Even if the basket broke, I wouldn’t mind. After all, it was my first attempt, and I wanted to test its limits so I wouldn’t be caught off guard next time. Now that I’d mastered the technique, even if this one failed, I could easily make another—vines were plentiful.

Yet to my surprise, even fully loaded, the basket showed no signs of loosening or breaking. In fact, I could feel a bit of resilience in the vines.

With that, perhaps this rainy day wouldn’t be so dull after all. Back baskets, hand baskets, even waist pouches—I could try making them all...

Maybe I could even attempt vine clothing... Ha! Perhaps. It was just a wild idea in a moment of excitement...