Joe’s balding head re-emerged into its worst-case scenario. He trod frantic waterly and saw the lights of the charter boat disappearing into black night. He heard the sounds of the B.G.’s on the stereo fading. The boat’s exhausts gurgling. And one shrill laughing scream; as a little wave slapped his eyes.


The rest of the crew partied on and didn’t really notice Joe’s absence until about ten-thirty the next morning because they thought he was still sulking in the forward cabin. Their erratic course during the night and the suspect navigational information eventually relayed to the money-starved, volunteer, rescue service meant that by the next day Joe’d been declared  “Lost; Believed Drowned.”

But Joe hadn’t drowned  because several hours after his off-balance technicolor yawn over the stern, in the darkness with his biting panic and sinking anxiety, Joe’d been nudged by something solid, which after initially frightening him, saved his life. It was a long smooth tree trunk complete with forked crown and buttressed roots, so Joe’d been given a slim second chance. He hauled himself out of the water, exhausted, and lay along its slender length with arms and legs dangling.

By morning there were a couple of plastic bottles, one with a length of string attached, and a few more twisted pieces of driftwood that had accumulated in the fork. Joe grabbed them and tied them together.

During three weeks of drifting eastward across ever more open ocean Joe’s main concern had been to collect the rainwater from the localized tropical squalls by wringing out his wet clothes into some of the plastic containers he’d collected. His tiny island of flotsam had grown to quite an estate made up of many pieces of driftwood both large and small. He’d gathered and entwined more than a thousand clear and colored plastic containers, countless light bulbs, odd broken thongs, plastic guns and other toys, chaffed chunks of calk, fourteen amber glass buoys, and several one hundred litre drums, all either wrapped in fish net lost from trawlers or tied together with the black tar-impregnated cord used for long-lines. Half a diesel-engine crate was secured at the highest point and covered in crisp sun-dried seaweed for Joe to watch the ocean and hide for weary birds to land.

Joe’s days were vast stretches of sky-time unmarked by objects or signs of measurement except for the reflection of the sun, moon, or clouds on the expansive grey dome which curved away in every direction. In his efforts to catch food Joe spent many hours lying perfectly still, in position, breathing carefully, waiting for a bird to land which he could, when lucky and lightning fast, catch by its legs. He’d tear off the bird’s head to drink its blood straight from the neck before ripping it open and consuming the stringy flesh until his tongue looked like a tampon in a broken pillow, but basically Joe was just spitting feathers and losing lots of weight. The weight he’d been wishing to lose through decades of beers and sweet coffees and toffees and burgers and bacon and eggs and thousands of hours of watching other people being energetic. But after twenty years of fifty fags a day Joe’s lungs were freshly filled with sweet sea air. His double chin and beer gut were gone and the receding flab had kept him alive through fine weather and foul. “Could be worse” mused Joe as clouds crowded the blue sky during the last few hours of the day.

Masses of cumuli blasted lightning onto the defenseless ocean as Joe lay flat on his island home clutching the cords and the netting where it was thickly tied and tangled into the largest pieces of driftwood. The sea was already whipped to white horses by the gusts and soon developed a large swell with foaming crests. When the lightning flashed Joe could see the size of the waves bearing down as he clung through the night praying fervently.

Next day Joe awoke to find the ocean calm again.   The island was somewhat out of shape but basically intact. He was relieved and then excited when he saw, aboard the twisted driftwood, there was a casualty from the storm. A half-size turtle. 
"Thirty kilos of meat!’ thought Joe as he frantically lunged forward to grab the sides of the turtle’s shell before it could escape. One flipper was tangled in the netting but despite three thrashing others Joe desperately tried to break the turtle’s neck, until he was lathered in sweat and almost exhausted. 
With one last effort he managed to turn the turtle onto its back, inadvertently releasing the previously ensnared fore-flipper, but still he had no clear idea of how he could kill it. “Drown it?” he wondered. “Strangle it!” he decided. And then did his best, squeezing at the leathery neck with his thumbs pressed in as hard as he possibility could. But he was hungry and weak so after twenty seconds, which seemed like eternity, when the tears started dribbling from the turtle’s eyes, and Joe began to see a creature instead of a meat-pack, his grip gradually eased and he fell back exhausted and flooded with shame caused by the pulse of its blood, the feel of its skin, and the mournful, forgiving look in its eyes.

The turtle was no longer entangled so as it suddenly slid back into the sea and slipped silently below the waves, Joe’s head swam with diluted self-rage for allowing such a desperately needed source of sustenance to escape! But, "What the hell!", he muttered silently.
Dying no longer seemed that bad anyway. Humans had been killing everything they could get their hands on for so long Joe figured it had to end somewhere, and even on the expansive ocean with not a speck of land in sight the pile of junk that Joe rode high upon was evidence enough of the human-beings’ wasteful destruction; and Joe finally had a chance to be separate from the madness.




With that realization Joe felt a deep and profound peace within and felt sure that all things were as they should be. “The turtle escaped. Good luck to it."
"Okay. I die here.” sighed Joe, “So what!” and beyond that thought he burst forth into crazy laughter. Not just because he’d escaped the dog-eat-dog world, but he was also experiencing a greater emotional intensity and massively increased understanding of the undifferentiated and perennial consciousness permeating the universe. 
Of course he was alone, more alone than ever before. But he felt a tremendous psychological and physical expansion as though his personality had blended with something far more powerful than himself. A flood of happiness pulsated and infused both his mind and body, and in that state Joe wished for nothing. The light from the setting sun reflected across the ocean in dancing, ever-changing patterns of gold, copper and platinum. The sky lit up as though the clouds were glad; as though the sun was saying goodnight to him alone; and in that tranquil state our weary but elated seafarer slipped softly into sleep.

The next morning Joe woke feeling fabulously rested, as though all the cares and fears he’d ever harboured had been washed away, dissolved and forgotten. He was also very hungry so it pleased and relieved him when mid-morning the turtle re-emerged with a struggling fish firmly pinned by its beak and allowed Joe to take it. Twice more that day the turtle delivered fish which Joe enjoyed eating with a side-dish of seaweed from the edge of his world.

 But far above the circling birds and far above the coral-colored clouds a satellite was looking at our cozy castaway. Firstly to check the blip they’d found, and then to shoot a photo of his face to find out who the hell he was. At headquarters in Texas the technicians figured out who they were looking at, consulted their superiors, and agreed it could be a chance to work some PR after the recent setback in trade diplomacy. 
They contacted their aussie counterparts, located Joe’s wife in Brisbane, and flew her by chopper to a Destroyer on maneuvers; and there it was, all several thousand grey tonnes of it, standing off, motors idling, when Joe awoke gagging on its exhaust fumes.

He panicked when he saw it. So ugly. So huge. So unexpected! Bristling with guns and swarming with uniformed people. He pressed back against his crate and stared.

”Mr. Agostini”, came the megaphone message from the forward petty officer, “We are here to save you Sir. Just a few minutes now. We are lowering a boat.”

Joe gathered his wits. He looked up at his wife waving from her position clutching the grey chain railing. “Its okay!’ yelled Joe, wondering if he was actually producing sounds, “No worries folks! She’ll be right!” he continued.

“Joe, Joe! I love you Joe” his wife bellowed back.

“Its okay”, Joe called again. “Have the house, keep the cars; they’re all yours, say ‘hi’ to the kids. Enjoy your life. I’m fine. Go home, please go home and leave me alone!” Joe pleaded, waving his hands and arms in ‘go back’ gestures.

“He’s obviously been drinking salt water” said the Petty Officer to three very able-seamen, “Go get him boys!”