No man is an island, part 3

For Harold, the Island was starting to lose its appeal. Certainly, the alluring palm trees still waved seductively in the wind, and the crabs danced dances of titillation and excitement. But overall, Harold missed his home.

 A gentle breeze carried itself across the beach, listlessly caressing the ragged remains of Harold's shoes. "Maude", the breeze seemed to whisper.

 Well, though Harold, I think that was her name. Maude. He'd been married, he thought. Or she'd been at the bus-stop. Either way, his missed her hair, coloured in a particular fashion as it had been, and also her face, which had probably been very pretty, or at least lacked hair in the right places.

 Yes, he thought happily. She'd have never stood for this kind of thing. Kept a clean house, Maude probably did. No sand around the place. Yes, beautiful as the island was, Harold (Oh fuck, I've just noticed the names are 'Harold and Maude', Like that film. I wasn't going for that. I was just thinking of Maude Flanders. Like any young man. Well, I'm too lazy to use another name. Let's just plough on).

 Yes, though Harold. The Island was beautiful. But he'd trade it all for Maude, just to see her again. He missed her more than anything.

 A gentle current stroked its way up the beach. Harold leaned back in the sand, and wondered if he'd actually been gay. Yes, that seemed familiar. The sun beat down on him from on high. Sadly, Harold wondered who Maude was. She could have been his hairdresser, now he thought about it.

 Islands aren't fun, kids.

A small update

Image by sir_watkyn via FlickrThe fountain gleamed. I'd never really seen anything gleam before, not like this. The gleamingness of the whole situation was made all the more impressive by distance. The distance, in this case, was the same distance as one would have to travel to climb a large mountain. This was because the Fountain of Youth was at the top of a large mountain, the bottom of which we were gently fondling.

 The rain had eased up as we approached the centre of the island. Falling around us lightly, forming a fine mist, the waters no longer troubled us. We had climbed a little of the mountain, finding a flat area and setting up camp for the night. Sergi had retreated into a corner, his face not quite hidden from the light of the campfire, planning some foreign trick to betray us for his own benefit. In the morning, provided we haven't been rolled of a cliff edge or force-fed Marmite, we will continue the trek. With any luck, we can traverse most of the mountain tomorrow. But I still feel worried. Perhaps it's nothing, just a nagging doubt I'm slowing the group down.

 Damn my elderly incontinence. Damn it!

In the jungle, the mighty jungle...

Image via WikipediaThere are fucking dinosaurs!
 Musical numbers aside though, our situation looked dire. Fleeing from the dinosaur of dinosauric proportions and attributes, we had made our way through a vast tract of jungle. Eventually, chancing upon a mountain ridge, we had taken shelter in a small cave, the entrance to which was too small for an unlubricated dinosaur to enter. With the rains still battering down, and the the threat of being battered and eaten still raining down in our brains, we decided to spend the night in the cave. It seemed safe, and a good thing for adventurers to do. However, as the sun rose and we awoke uneaten, unmolested and unfit, we find ourselves unable to find our location on the map.
 Shouting in Welsh, further throwing doubts on his apparent Barony of the colour red, the Red Baron made his anger clear on the subject. Sergi, his ratlike, untrustworthy foreign features (I'm still old, I have to be a bit racist and not realise that it's racism) contorted into thought, retreated to a corner like a rat. A foreign rat.
 Myself, wizard Ed and Adventurer Ed exited the cave and climbed to higher ground, hoping to survey the area. The others, after finishing their tantrums, followed us. We surveyed, but did not learn.
 The jungle spread out around us, vanishing into the horizon. Remembering the island had been only a mile-and-a-half wide from the plane, it was certainly impressive view. Adventurer Ed shook his head, his compass held in one hand and the map in the other.
 "Something's wrong with the compass, can't get a direction."
He was right. The compass, while very ornate and shiny, was actually a pocket-watch. Not for the first time, I began to doubt the competence of our expedition leader. Nearby, holding the other copy of the map, Sergi poked at something in his bag. I don't know what it was, but it was probably insidious.
 After a few seconds, he raised his head and pointed off to the right.
 "That way."
We asked him how he knew. He replied he had Sat Nav. This didn't make much sense, but we decided to go with it. Picking up our things, we headed in the direction Sergi pointed, towards the setting moon.

Island, fountain of youth, and so on...

Image by Scott Kinmartin via Flickr The weather worsened as we traversed the island. Taking advice from the locals, who unexpectedly spoke English, we gathered the fountain was located near the centre of the island. Every 30 years, a party of brave islanders would travel to the fountain and return with flasks of water, one drop of which restored the drinker to the age of 18. Of course, the journey was not an easy one - ancient, prehistoric creatures roamed the paths, grander eternal teenhood, savaging any who crossed their paths and preparing themselves for University.
 But first, we had to deal with the weather. Storms of prehistoric storminess roamed the island's inner area. Rains from prehistoric times pounded down upon us, messing up the hair of our group. Sergi, his rat-like features widened in fear, suddenly appeared ahead of. Using his tracking abilities, he had decided to scout ahead and, if possible, betray us. This was his role in our group - in the finest Hollywood traditions, Sergi was the foreign group member who would turn on us and steal our whatever. As always, the fact we'd all come to this island to plunder ancient magics would be ignored in favour of his treachery.
 But for now, Sergi remained un-betraying to us. He was even helping us, shouting loudly that a dinosaur was following him. In fact - Actually, I'm sorry. I'm not writing this very well, am I? This is not a Pulitzer-Prize* winning piece of fiction. Well, I'll try harder.
 The jungle creaked and moaned, repeating ancient echoes that had bounced the hallowed leaves since time began. The trees, their roots deep and long, stretched all across the island, drawing water from the same source as the fountain. Leaves unknown to the eyes of man for thousands of years fell around us, serving as feeble shelter, or unceremoniously, as toilet paper. We had stopped to take shelter, to consult the high-quality map the tribesmen had printed for us in their library. The laminated sheet mocked us as droplets of water ran from the shiny surface. Sergi, having scouted in the army for many years, had been sent ahead, to report to us the lay of the land. The rain continued, drops the size and sharpness of pencils fell and impaled the ground, sending sprays of mud into the air. We did not talk; the ancient rains drowned noise as well as people, and it seemed best not to open our mouths, disturbed flies buzzed nearby.
 In the distance, I fancied I heard a scream, a cry without the wisdom of age exhibited in the flora and fauna around us. It drew closer, and I noticed my companions raise their heads in interest.
 Leaves parted ahead of us; ancient ferns spreading their leaves and opening their passageways. Adventurer Ed reached out slowly, picking up his rifle. My aged hands crawled my body, reaching for the knife in my belt. Then suddenly, the trees gave a final shudder and spat out a figure, his heels flying behind him, his face gripped with fear and splattered in mud. Segi, his visage terrified, sprinted past us. His warning cry was carried back on primordial winds.
 Dinosaur.

*Yes, I'm aware I'm not even eligible for one. I know, it was sarcasm. It's what I do.

Image via WikipediaDipping and diving, doing loop the loops and hiding playfully behind clouds. These were some of the activities we were not partaking of. The plane we were in was to flying what an arthritic man is to gymnastic porn - really crap and stupid. What we had chosen to fly was not the sleek and sexy plane of the rich playboy adventurer, seeking out undiscovered tribes of naked women and fountains that spray gold coins. What we were flying was a caravan, stretched out and held together by tape, with two different wings attached. How we stayed in the air, I'll never know, but I prayed to every God I could think of to keep us up there.

 The Red Baron - who I was now positive was blind - was hunched over the wheel again. His flying goggles fixed in place, his moustache flapping manically under the maniacal, moustache-like flaps of his flying hat thing. Adventurer Ed was nearby, crouched over the passenger seat in what he imagined to be a dramatic pose. Sergi, unfazed, smoked a foul cigarette and cleaned his fingernails with a knife point. Non-adventurer Ed and I crouched in the back of the plane, huddled amongst the crates and the goats and our fears. I had already urinated myself, but being elderly, no-one had noticed.

 After some time - an eternity, or 3 hours, I don't recall which - Adventurer Ed sighted land, pointing through the mist to an island below. Taking the plane down in a disturbingly direct fashion - cutting all power - the Baron guided us to land. A tribe had gathered on the beach to watch, comprised of racially offensive stereotypes, black men and women in grass skirts, chanting and dancing on the sand.
 I wondered what came next.
 Probably another strongly worded cease and desist letter.

No Man is an Island, Part 2

Yes, Harold thought to himself, life on the island wasn't so bad after all.
It was a pity about the crushing loneliness though.

No man is an Island

All in all, the situation could have been a lot worse for Harold. Of course, he was still stuck on the desert island, but the weather was nice, and the plane wreck would keep him in supplies for another 6 or so months: plenty of time for him to get the edible tropical bug farm up and running.

At first, he had been a little despondent when his boat had sunk, leaving him marooned on the small island. He had carried out the standard, cliched actions - building a big fire, writing "help" in rocks, and searching for a single local who he could name ridiculously - but to no avail. However, after exploring the island, he found it had fresh water, and at least some edible plants and the like. Then had come the plane crash:
He had seen the plain trailing through the sky, and ran to start a fire. Unfortunately, the plane seemed to be in a spot of bother, and crashed into the ocean nearby. Harold had swam out to exploer, but it seemed the crew had parachuted out of the plane earlier. However, he found some rations, which broke up the monotony of eating coconuts, and crate after crate of sweat pants.
They were also rather tasty.