THE PLIGHT OF HENRY JOHNSON

THE FIRST THING Henry Johnson became aware of as he awoke was the warmth of the morning sun. The second was the not-so-distant lap of waves on the shore. And the third was a headache which felt as though someone was gouging out the inside of his skull with a chisel.

Blearily, Henry opened his eyes. He was lying on a sandy beach, about ten metres from the water’s edge. He groaned as memory returned. Yesterday he had been sailing across the southern Pacific, blissfully alone. Then a dark cloud had appeared on the horizon. Quickly it had filled the sky and, as night fell, a tropical storm had broken around him. He had battled for hours to save his boat. He might have succeeded too, if it hadn’t suddenly bucked on a huge wave, causing him to fall back and strike his head against the boom. Dazed, he lost his footing entirely, and slipped from the deck into the sea.

The storm had abated, but his boat was nowhere to be seen. Henry was cast adrift. His life-jacket kept him afloat, but the cold began to seep into his bones. His teeth chattered and he shivered uncontrollably. Eventually, though, the chill seemed to lessen. Lulled by the waves, he felt himself drifting into sleep – a sleep from which (a small part of him was anxiously aware) he would probably never awaken.

Then he was jerked back to full consciousness by his knee scraping against a rock. He realised that the sea here was shallow, and when he looked up he could see a strip of white sand. On the horizon three tall palm trees were silhouetted against the moon. With the last vestiges of strength left in his limbs, Henry began to swim…

…AND NOW IT WAS MORNING. Henry groaned again and sat up. Of his boat, ‘The Happy Wanderer’, there was no sign. The beach was deserted, and he realised the same was probably true of the whole island. There were no cigarette butts in the sand, no discarded cans, no mini-mopeds buzzing in the distance. It appeared that the tour operators had so far overlooked this particular jewel in the South Pacific.

The Sun was getting hotter. Henry realised that, if he was to survive here, his first priority must be finding fresh water. He looked around. The palm trees he had seen last night were a little way inland; other than that, the island seemed to be mainly scrub. Rain was evidently a rare commodity here. Just my luck to be caught in their annual storm, he thought bitterly.

Henry rose unsteadily to his feet. He stripped off the heavy life jacket, so that he was just wearing cut-off jeans and a T-shirt, and headed towards the trees. His survival knowledge was limited, but he had an idea that their presence indicated fresh water nearby. He stumbled over the fine sand. Between the three palms, as he had hoped, there was a small pool. Henry cupped his hands and drank deeply. At least he would not die of thirst…not yet, anyway.

Henry’s head was throbbing, and he realised he had to find some shade. He guessed the temperature to be into the nineties by now, although the sun was still nowhere near its zenith. He looked around. The island appeared flat and offered few possibilities, but further down the beach he could see a few pieces of driftwood. Perhaps they might form the basis of a shelter?

As Henry walked closer, he realised that they were parts of his boat. He even found a bit of the bow with the name ‘The Happy Wanderer’ on it, and some scraps of paper from his charts. His heart sank. Now he knew for sure that there would be no quick return to civilisation. He would have to wait to be rescued: possibly days, possibly weeks, possibly much longer.

Perspiring heavily, Henry gathered all the flotsam that he could find. As well as the wood and scraps of paper, he found a metal drinking mug, a tiny candle and a box of matches. The good news was that the latter had been wrapped in a plastic bag to keep out the damp; the bad news was that inside was only a single match. His most useful find, as far as shelter was concerned, was an oily tarpaulin. Returning to the palms, he built a sort of dug-out in the sand, which he covered with the tarpaulin. Luxury villa it wasn’t, but at least it would give him some protection. He pulled himself inside and, exhausted, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

…HE WAS WOKEN by a chill wind. The tarpaulin had blown off, revealing a clear, starry night, and had become caught on one of the palm trees, where it flapped loudly in the wind. Henry wrestled it back from the trunk. In that wind there was no chance of rebuilding his dug-out, so he wrapped the tarpaulin around himself to try to keep out the numbing cold.

Through the rest of the night, Henry slept little. His whole body ached; his head throbbed mercilessly; and his stomach growled, reminding him that he had not eaten for two whole days. He realised that he must have burned up a lot of energy fighting the storm and, later, in the sea. Unless he ate soon, he would become too weak to fend for himself.

The next day, fighting a growing lethargy, he managed to assemble what might be the makings of a meal. There wasn’t much: just a few roots, some insect grubs, a yellow worm, and a small scorpion he had seen almost too late. But if he could start a fire, he might be able to make some kind of stew in the mug. Hands shaking, he collected together all the items he’d gathered from the wreck of his boat.

Henry paused, confused. His stomach was shrieking out for food, but his brain no longer seemed to be functioning correctly. He looked at the little collection in front of him – the scraps of wood he’d dried, the tiny candle and the scraps of paper from his charts – but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out which to light first.

– In order to light a fire, to cook the desperately needed meal, which of the items salvaged from the wreck of ‘The Happy Wanderer’ should Harry light first?