Marooned

Science pales in importance compared to survival

Noon
I've hated this beach from the moment I washed up on it after our "advanced scientific yacht"—an old fishing boat with an antenna—sank. Kiki isn't with me; I reckon she's either dead or washed up on another beach.

Against all odds, my seabag washed up alongside me, my journals and papers all secure in their watertight bag. Still, I can't find this island on any of my charts. An old sextant for sailing by the stars would come in handy now. ...Actually, the only star I care about right now is the dreadfully brutal sun.

It's looks like a tropical paradise here: white sands under a cool green canopy of palms before plunging into a dark jungle interior. I'll stay under the palms if I need to, but who knows what kind of boars or lizards are swarming in the jungle.

I'm keeping this journal out of morbid hope: if I make it out of here, I'll have a best seller.

Early Evening
There's no real time here. My watch stopped when the engines blew up on us. 7:19 AM. —Handy info.

I've scouted a little way into the jungle. No sign of game, and I have no idea what plants aren't poisonous. The jungle's so quiet! Is it supposed to be? Don't know; Kiki was the specialist in tropical environments.

Late Evening
I'm huddled in the rocks of a cliff and shaking with fear; I'm surprised I can even write, but this has to be recorded.

I found Kiki. She's dead, but I don't know what killed her: the water, the rocks, the sun...or people! She was covered in bite marks, and parts of her were...dear God, parts of her were missing! Please, God, don't let it be that cannibals...ate her alive!

I' afraid—no! Someone—

(Word Count: 300)