Sitting on the beach, he stares out at the ocean. It's noon, or thereabouts. He observes the waves as the ocean rolls in and draws out again like the deep, gentle breathing of a giant. The rhythm lulls him in the heat of the day, as his mind starts to wander. How long has he been here now? He's completely lost track of time, he's not even sure he can remember his own name. What was it again? Didn't it start with a J? Joe, no... John. No. Jonathan? Maybe. He's fairly certain it was "Jo—" something. It's not like it really matters.

A sharp reflection catches his eye. There's something in the water, beyond the surf. It's still too far to see what it really is, so he waits awhile. Patience... or is it something else? Maybe it's apathy. Whatever it is, he's learned it here. He can wait, if it gets here, it gets here. His thoughts meander through the landscape of his mind. A flash. He sees it again, it's getting closer. What is it? He gets to his feet in order to see better. Another flash blinds him for a moment. Isn't that a bottle? Yes! Now he's sure, that's a bottle bobbing on the waves, making its way to shore.

It's still quite far at this point, but not too far to swim. He shrugs to himself, may as well. It's not like he's got anything better to do. He steps into the ocean to retrieve the bottle. As he walks into the surf, the water washes over him. He wades until he can hardly touch the sand when the waves are low, then he starts to swim.

As he swims, his mind starts to wander again. He recalls the last few weeks, or is it months? No, not more than a few months, surely? Thank goodness he was alone when he had to perform the emergency landing. However, landing might have been a generous term to use. He remembers the aftermath, searching the wreckage in order to salvage something for survival. He found some non-perishables and some tools. He also found some paper and a pen.

After settling in, and accepting his lot, he had a fairly comfortable time surviving. It was a small island, with some fresh water and some plant life to sustain him when his supplies ran out. He'd gotten into the habit of walking around the island every day. There wasn't much else to do. There was often flotsam and jetsam littering the shore. One day he had found a bottle, complete with cork. It was green, and it was empty, and it looked fairly old. This had given him the idea.

After he had written a letter, detailing his situation, and the last coordinates he knew of before the crash, he threw the bottle into the ocean. Of course, he'd had to swim out past the waves. Throwing it as far as he could nearly cost him his life, as he was pulled under the water unexpectedly. That was quite the experience.

He's brought back to the now as he approaches the bottle. He grabs it and quickly swims back to shore. At last! He stands on the beach and inspects his reward. It's an old looking bottle, but with no cap. It's not empty, though, there's paper inside! Excitement bolts through him. He pries the soaking wet paper out with a searching finger, to see what it might say. He drops the bottle as his trembling hands carefully and anxiously unfold the wet mess in his hands.

His face sinks as he recognises the blotched handwriting. It's his letter. His insides go cold and he falls to his knees on the sand. A sob racks his body. Tears roll down his face as he breaks down crying in the sand.

Another day on the island.

Another day, still stranded...