Finding Joy on a Desert Island

The trap you had set up to catch crabs has been claimed by the island monkey, now parading around camp with it on its head. You and your fellow castaways burst into laughter. The tension of the day dissolves. For a moment, you’re not survivors—you’re kids again, delighting in the absurd.

A fellow islander is tangled in a fishing net. He had been so sure of himself, convinced he could untangle it alone. Now he looks like a comical fish. You cover your mouth to hide your grin. You know you shouldn't laugh, but his earlier confidence makes it all the funnier.

You step into a forest clearing filled with blooming wildflowers. You lean down to breathe in deeply. The sweet, heady scent fills your nose—jasmine and something tropical you can't name. After days of salt air and smoke, this pure fragrance feels like a gift.

At dusk, the island quiets. The waves hush, the air stills. You lie in a hammock, belly full, limbs warm from the sun. Nothing calls for your attention. No tasks, no noise. There is only breath, light, and the gentle hum of life around you.

The storm clouds are rolling in fast. You paddle frantically toward shore as the first drops begin to fall. Just when lightning flickers in the distance, you haul your bamboo raft up onto the beach. You made it. Your shoulders sag, breath shaking loose—one more minute out there and you would have been swallowed by the waves.

You step back from your perfectly arranged pile of firewood—freshly chopped, sorted by size, ends aligned—axe still in hand. The work took all morning, but now the job is complete. The result of your effort stands before you, and you’re ready for whatever weather comes.

You've been fiddling with the waterlogged radio for weeks, hope fading with each attempt. Then suddenly—a voice crackles through the static: “We hear you.” Clear words. Real people. Your eyes go wide, hands trembling as you grip the device. You're leaping to your feet, heart hammering.

Your fellow castaway holds up a spiral seashell, eyes bright with excitement. “This one completes my collection!” You see his driftwood display case—each compartment holding a beautiful shell except for one that has been waiting empty. His delight spreads across your face as well.

You stand waist-deep in the lagoon as another castaway emerges from the water nearby, droplets streaming off their shoulders, silhouette glowing against the orange sunset. Your gaze lingers on the play of light across their skin, the graceful way they move. The air between you seems to thicken.

After dinner, you sit beside your favorite islander, watching the fire crackle. No words, just warmth—of the flames, the shared silence, the comfort of not being alone. He leans gently on your shoulder. A small gesture, but it says everything.

You crouch gently on the moonlit beach as dozens of tiny sea turtle hatchlings push their way out of their sandy nest. You carefully guide the disoriented babies toward the ocean, shielding them from gulls and crabs as they scramble toward their new home.

You’re heading back to camp when you notice someone at the forest’s edge nursing a wounded bird in a nest of leaves. She moves gently, speaking in whispers. She thinks she’s alone. Witnessing this quiet act of compassion lifts something inside you.

You wake to find a small pile of fruit and freshly boiled water beside your shelter, along with a note: “Thought you might need a little extra today – J.” You smile. Yesterday, you helped her repair a leaky roof. You asked for nothing in return, and yet, here it is.

On a cliff overlooking the ocean, you kneel before a memorial you've created for a fellow castaway. A month ago, she drowned while saving others from a riptide. A simple stone cairn topped with driftwood bears her carved name. You bow your head in honor of her selfless courage.

You observe as a fellow islander makes a fishing net from vines and driftwood. Her fingers move with calm precision, tying knots you couldn’t dream of mastering. She doesn’t boast; in fact, she doesn’t even register your presence.

While poking around in shore debris, you discover a rusty box. Inside, water-stained but intact, are the family portraits you thought were lost forever in the shipwreck. Faces of those you love stare back at you. They feel so close, yet so far away. Tears blur your eyes.

Your raft floats steadily in the shallows: bamboo tied with vines and persistence. This is your third attempt, and it holds! On the beach, the others cheer. You wade back to the shore and feel a rising in your chest as you take it in: you did it.

The others gave up an hour ago. But you’re still here, kneeling in the sand, working with twigs and dry leaves. Fingers rubbing with intent, striking, adjusting—not out of hope, but resolve. Time slips away. You’re set on making it happen.

You’re wandering through the jungle when something makes you stop: a cluster of bird nests hanging from the trees. Delicately woven, interconnected, almost architectural. You’ve never seen anything like it. Your eyes try to trace the patterns. You wonder how they built this, and why. You can’t look away.

You're fishing from your bamboo raft when suddenly the water surges up beside you. A massive blue whale rises in splendor, water cascading off its magnificent body like a waterfall. Your mouth opens as this giant of the ocean hangs suspended for a breathtaking moment before it vanishes again into the depths.

You stop to watch a pod of dolphins at work. They move like a well-practiced team, circling a school of fish and cutting off every escape. As you take in their skillful teamwork, an idea clicks: if they can do it, so can you—forming the same circle with nets, trapping fish near the shore.

The storm clouds that have darkened the sky for days finally break apart. Above you, the heavens open into an endless river of stars—more than you've ever seen, so brilliant they seem close enough to touch. You tilt your head back, completely still. The immensity of the night sky dwarfs everything.

You and another castaway stand beaming in front of a palm-leaf sign that reads “Tonight: Grand Feast.” Below the sign, a long driftwood table is being decorated with tropical fruit and flower garlands. Your eyes shine with eager anticipation as you watch the preparations. It promises to be the biggest meal the island has seen.

The storm hit harder than expected. Supplies were damaged. The raft—your lifeline—drifted out to sea. But this morning, the sky is clear. A soft breeze brushes your skin. Then you spot a ship on the horizon. It’s not close. Its crew might not even see you. Even so, your heart lifts: “Maybe… just maybe.”