It was the beginning of the rainy season on my seventeenth year on the island. Friday had gone to the northern side of the island to hunt wild goats and would no doubt spend the night in the cave outpost we had constructed there when he saw the brooding storm clouds moving in from the west. For my part, being well aware of the impending malevolence of the weather, I began to tether down as much as possible, and to ensure that my abode was as wind-proof and rain-proof as it could be.
As I completed my preparations, I spotted what looked like an upturned boat on the incoming surf. The rain was already falling like daggers but the opportunity was too good to miss. I ran down the sand and grabbed the object from the arms of the sea before it was smashed to pieces on the rocks. On my own, and in the face of a biting gale, it was all I could do to pull the boat, a rowing vessel belonging to some wrecked galleon, a few yards up the beach before I had to flee and hope for the best.
My sleep was troubled by the shrieking wind and lashing rain until in the early hours I fell into a deep slumber in spite of my worries for the boat, my companion on the other side of the island and my livestock.
When I awoke, the storm had worn itself out and I became gradually aware of the sound of hammering in the distance. Pulling the furniture away from the door, I saw a black figure down the beach working away to some object; it was my manservant, Friday, returned to me safely.
I wandered down the beach to see to what object his endeavours were directed.
'Look', he said, beaming. 'I make raft.' He was surrounded by planks of wood.
'But where did you ...?'
Then I remembered the boat, and put my head in the hands and cried as I had not done since boyhood.