2213 words! First attempt. I pwned the word count.
The stinging of saltwater awoke Jay. He was half-buried in sand, his face sheltered from the hot sun by a scrap of metal.
High tide had come along, washing the dried blood and sand off his face. Metal groaned and shifted as he sat up. He was inside
The cabin of a boat, which had been torn open, and what were left of his personal belongings were waterlogged and quickly moving
from keepsake to detritus. The left wall was gone, facing the beach, and the floor was dug into the shore.
Jay tried to cradle his aching head, but his wrist was dislocated. He had seen this on TV before - he pulled his hand,
wiggled it around a little bit, and after a large crack, it felt a bit better. He used his other hand to check his head for
injuries and he was better. It still throbbed and he couldn't use the hand much, but the pain was mostly gone. Sitting up, he
crawled out of the cabin and found him amidst a jungle of wreckage.
Glass crunched under Jay's sandals as he explored the ruins. It was his personal yacht - the namesake of the boat was intact.
"SS Nightingale," it read. Strewn about the wrecked steering wheel were opaque pieces of black glass and bottles of Smirnoff Ice.
The scenario came together in Jay's mind - he was 'iced' by his 'bros' and this led to him hopping on his personal yacht - which
was supposed to only be used on autopilot - and manually drive it around. Jay knew that he had been out for a long time, because
his hangover was mild. His first concern was finding food; nutrients to sustain him and his escape from the island.
He clambered onto the main deck of the yacht, which was partially intact. There was a refrigerator there. He fumbled with
the door, forcing it open, to reveal that it was full of carryout Greek food and Funyuns. Not a single bottle of water in sight.
Taking a gyro and a Mountain Dew, Jay sat down and had a meal while looking out at the beach. There were crabs scuttling around,
so he had nourishment even when the gyros ran out. Drinkable water was nowhere to be found, however, so Jay knew he would have to
escape within the next few days - because of the hot sun, the 12 cans of soda wouldn't last more than 4 days, if he rationed them.
When his food was finished (which took a long time, because he couldn't use his left hand to eat) he walked down the beach to try to
find a means of getting off the island.
Any way of contacting the shore using the boat's equipment was out-of-the-question. The best there was was an empty flare gun
- buried under some wreckage - that was filled completely with sand. Because Jay was drunk, he forgot to stock the boat with any
ammo for it. Damning himself for such failure, he grabbed the flare gun in case he found some saltpeter somewhere.
Jay tripped over a piece of metal. Apparently, said piece of metal was important to the structural integrity of the boat's
wreckage, as the disturbance caused the entire place to shift a little bit. Jay was glad he had shoes to wear, or he would've
seriously hurt himself - a laceration was the last thing he needed. The shift revealed that the boat was deeply buried in the
beach - it must've needed some time to settle in and sink down. Jay figured that heâd spent a sizable amount of time unconscious,
and that if his 'bros' were going to call for a rescue effort, it would've started by now. He would either have a few days to wait
for rescue, or a few days left to live. And he thought that decision was out of his hands.
It was getting late. The sun was slipping under the horizon, lighting up the whole sky for a moment before slipping under the
waves. The ocean ahead of Jay's vision was jet black, the only light coming from behind him. Stopping to think for a moment, Jay
realized that there shouldn't be any other light nearby - he was fairly sure the island was uninhabited, and it was in the
Caribbean. Turning around, Jay saw a fiery glow coming from the other side of the island. It was an out-of-the-way piece of land
in the middle of a salty wasteland, and the sole inhabitant of it was doomed to be roasted in an inferno. But Jay wouldn't let
this be his purgatory - Lost did that already, and Jay wouldn't want to live such a thing down. So he took a few puffs of his
asthma inhaler to keep him awake, and he started trying to find a way back to shore.
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The buzzing in his muscles made it difficult to concentrate, but Jay made do with the little focus he was able to muster.
Every second wasted was a second that could cost him his life. The boat was inoperable. Running aground had torn the engine to
pieces, and it couldn't be repaired. Jay had to find another way.
The island was adorned with palm trees. Enough to provide coconuts for nourishment when the lazy gyro was gone - only two or
three remained - and milk for hydration. Their fanlike leaves provided ample protection from the beating sunlight, which itself
was being dimmed by the black smoke slowly rising from the other side of the island. It was as if a demon had taken up residence
below the island and was slowly emerging up from the smoldering ground, and Jay had to escape it.
Jay began work on a composite Frankenraft - a few of the more shapely pieces of scrap metal from the boat could be used to
form an outer ridge to keep water off and provide a more hydrodynamic shape, whereas the main floor would be made out of the
buoyant palm wood that grew on the island. Jay had to find a way to cut down the wood, and so he set to work.
The yacht was devoid of a hatchet or knife of any kind, but the area was full of sharp scrap metal. It would be a labor to
cut and section the trees - two were needed, maybe three - but he had to do it if he was to survive.
Near the front of the boat, there was a jagged piece of sharp metal broken into crude serrations by the rivets that once
held it to the rest of the yacht. He was able to fell the upper three quarters of a small palm tree with it. He had the wood of
perhaps half of a regular-size tree to work with to start building the yacht. But it was better than nothing.
Jay used a large piece of metal to poke holes in the crude boards he had fashioned from his wood. The boards got the same
treatment. He would be able to find some rivets from the yacht large enough to hold them together, perhaps using some sort of
twine to tie them together on the underside, to keep it all together.
Jay wasn't aware of the time, other than that it was getting late. He had been on the effects of his asthma inhaler on-
and-off for two or so days, so he was breathing to clearly and sitting just a little too awkwardly to be able to think through his
plan well. He went through two scraps of metal cutting the last two trees and formatting them to be fit to the raft, but after a
total of around five days on the island, Jay had a shot of getting out. He just needed an oar and something buoyant, in case he
fell overboard. Even if the raft could only get him halfway to somewhere else, it was better than nothing, and if he made it
relatively far, he would be able to use the makeshift buoy to swim to the shore.
It wasn't until he woke up in the middle of the day with a palm leaf covering his eyes that he remembered that the effects
of the albuterol had wore off. He had set himself up like that a bit past midday on the fifth day - it was clearly noon. He had
lost almost an entire day, and the fire was almost to his doorstep. He had to work fast.
He finished separating the wood into a floor, and the scrap metal panels were already interconnected. He finished drilling
holes into the wood, and found some rivets from the boat to keep them together. He forced them through and beat them over with a
rock to hold the boards and the scrap metal together both ways. Jay was satisfied with the result - it floated, even with him on
it. All he had left to do was fashion a buoy in case the raft went down.
The life jackets on his yacht were all too small for him. He used another sharp piece of scrap metal - there were a lot of
them laying about - to harvest the foam from the jackets. He bound them together with a piece of his shirt, and set them on the
raft. He cut a thin section of wood off most of the length of an extra tree and a full section off the bottom to use as an oar.
It was ugly and ineffective, but like his entire escape plan, it was better than being roasted on the sand by the fire.
As a final precaution, Jay took the last gyro - it was disgusting by his taste standards, cold and covered with (ugh)
iceberg lettuce. He had to take his last soda along with him too, and if he needed any more water on the trip, he would be doomed.
He pushed off just before the fire took its hold of the boat wreck. Jay rowed frantically, trying to get a good distance
away before the fire hit the fuel tank and ignited. He was 300 yards out when the explosion sent shrapnel out over the ocean. He
was too far out to be affected, but it was a sad moment to see his beloved yacht blown to bits. The nightingale was being consumed
by flame.
He continued to row - the waters were volatile, but due to the raised edges of the raft, water didn't come over the raft.
The sun was beating down on him, and Jay cursed himself for not taking any palm leaves to shade himself. He couldn't fall asleep
because he had to keep rowing, though he took an occasional rake. He had to drag the oar onto the raft. He was panting and
yearned for the lukewarm, artificial taste of the soda. It was flavored with concentrated orange juice? Pffft. It tasted like a
distillation of every processed joy the USA had to offer. So he opened it and drank the entire thing. The caffeine gave him a
welcome boost, and the sugar gave him renewed energy to continue rowing. He consumed the last gyro - the lettuce was icky, but he
needed all the energy he could get - and with more energy and a better mood, he continued to row.
Jay had no idea where he was going. He had to go straight away from the island, which is what he thought his path was when
He was hung over. He saw out of the corner of his eye a real boat, and tried to get its attention.
He yelled out to the boat. He waved his arms, screamed, did everything he could do. The boat captain looked over, and laughed. He wasn't going to help Jay unless he thought he had to. And this gave Jay an idea.
Jay still had the dead flare gun. He knew it was empty, but the captain was clueless - and a law had been passed recently mandating that all people who were able to rescue one in distress must do so. There were two other people on the boat, and they were old. They were yelling at the boat pilot, who then turned and came for the raft. Jay rose to a stand and dove out o the raft, swimming towards the stopped boat. The men hauled him up.
"Who are ya, son?" the old man asked.
"M-my name is Jay. My yacht wrecked on an island," he was able to say.
"Heh, not used to actual troubles, are ya, lunchbox?" the pilot said, unhappy about rescuing him.
"This model's nicer than mine was!" Jay was unhappy that the man was so dismissive of what he thought to be a Crusoeian tale of how he overcame the odds.
"I'll drive you to the shore."
Jay sat, simmering, for the rest of the time there. He thanked the old man and woman for forcing the boat pilot - their rebellious son - to pick him up. Regardless of his half-assed plan and lucky rescue, Jay had escaped the island. All he had to do was find his way home.
