Deserted islands are a lie.

At least how we know them.

It would be easy to get cynical and say that we’ve romanticized the concept of a desert island too much, but that’s nothing short of an injustice. It was my own fault for thinking, when the plane was falling out of the sky, that if I lived I’d be able to find one or just drift until I washed up on a shore with palm trees and a fresh water source.

Instead I got a sandbar where I can stand knee deep and look out across the cerulean water that melds seamlessly with the sky. It gets that way around this time for about fifteen minutes. The rest of the time you can tell the difference pretty easily and the sky is reliably darker than the ocean.

I sit mostly, scoop up handfuls of the wet sand that saved my life. I owe so much to those scoops. And I watch it fall back in the water, one thick, dark glob at a time and I wish more than anything that it was dry sand. That way I could say each grain was like a person I knew, so I wasn’t really alone here. Every grain, a ghost. But it’s just wet sand that’s keeping me from drowning, though killing me all the same. This wasn’t what I was promised. This wasn’t what I wanted. I should be furious.

But the ocean still looks beautiful.

Even from here.


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