Today

The man stood in the ocean, the clear, warm water swelling and receding around his naked hips. He stared into the distance, unconsciously watching for billowing clouds of distant sail to crest the horizon.

He retrieved his net carefully. The net had been lovingly tended and repaired, but its fibers were fragile from long use. He cast the net out again, the meticulously knotted and interlinked threads whirling into a crude droplet spraying circle before splashing into the water. He painstakingly recovered the net, his fingers alert from long practice, judging its weight, feeling without conscious thought for the tugs of frightened prey.

He stared into the distance as his hands worked. His thin, bony fingers were stiff with age, his hair long and wild, and his skin dark, leathery, and pocked with oozing, scabbed sores that never healed, the result of too much time in the harsh, tropical sun.

He flung his net, its soft splash unnoticed. He was surrounded by water, but to drink he had to walk miles. Trees were his only shelter, the beach his only source of food, and the minuscule pool--barely calf deep and no wider than his arms--he'd created by laboriously excavating a depression in a tiny stream, his only water.

He flung his net. In the beginning he'd kept track of days by placing twigs in neat lines in the sand. After completing thirty rows of ten, he'd stopped, no longer sure he'd always remembered to place a stick on his daily trek to the beach. The passage of days no longer mattered. Only today mattered.

He flung his net. He'd been the ropemaker's apprentice aboard the 50-gun Exe. The Exe, named for the river near Southampton where the ship was built, had been a fine ship. They'd sailed from the colonies on September 18^th, 1721, bound for Elmina, escorting five ships heavily laden with rum and tobacco. Sixty-two days out of Charleston, the ships had been set upon by a fierce late season storm as they sailed for the African coast. He'd been sixteen, and that had been his fourth crossing.

He flung his net. The Exe, and the ships under her protection, hadn't been able avoid the storm, though Captain Falk had turned them southwest in a futile dash for safety. They'd lost track of their charges as the storm howled, and when Exe broached, turning her beam to the waves as she was dismasted, he knew his home for the past two years wouldn't survive.

He flung his net. Absently, he tried to remember his shipmates' names, but like always, he couldn't recall a single name, even his own... and had there been anyone to tell the names to, they'd have had difficulty understanding his words, so long had he gone without speaking.

He flung his net. The next day, the sun had dawned bright in a perfect blue sky. Others had probably survived the breakup of the Exe, but he could see or hear none of them. He'd drifted for two days, clinging desperately to a piece of wood and life, tying himself to it with a length of rope so he wouldn't slip off in exhaustion. As dawn arrived on the third day, he'd seen a speck against the sun's ruddy glow. All that day he'd kicked and paddled, straining for sanctuary.

He flung his net. He'd made the sandy beach as light faded, dragged himself out of the surf, but was too exhausted to go further. When the sun rose the next day, he was desperate for water. He'd stumbled to the thick vegetation at the beach edge where he sucked dew from leaves... then he'd found the turtle eggs. He'd eaten the cache greedily before collapsing into an exhausted sleep. When he woke again, he sat himself the task of surviving until another ship passed. He'd had no tools, but he'd found his precious trickle of water, and then carefully deconstructed the rope to weave his net.

He was watching the horizon when his fingers felt a tug. He exploded into motion, frantically hauling in the net, eager for whatever food the sea would provide. He threw himself into the surf to grapple with the large fish, gripping it tightly to his chest before spinning to throw it to the surf's edge. He pounced on it, driving his fist into the fish's head again and again as the beast fought for its own survival.

Today, he would eat... and live for another day.