He rolled over onto his side, and once more looked into his water container

THE SKY was the same colour as the rolling sea.  Everything was blue except for one small speck that danced on the waves.  Even that disappeared so often that it hardly appeared to be real.
        But it was there!  it was real.  it was a raft, and on that raft there lay a man.
        He lay so still that he seemed to be dead.  Only a very close look showed that he still lived, that his chest moved, that he breathed.  His torn old clothes lay close against his wet body-and his weather-beaten face was like death.  He was a well-made man, and must once have possessed great strength.  Now he lay like a child on the logs.
        On the raft there was a rough shelter, made form all that was left of a sarong.  the man lay under it, using it as a shield against the cruel sun which burned down on him, and to keep off the rain.
        When the rain came he would forget that he had prayed for it, to ease his thirst, and to cool his burning, blistered body.  He would long to be warm again.
        Then, when the sun burst through once more he would twist away, and try to turn from it, and pray yet again for the friendly rain, the welcome rain.  He would given anything to have it back:  anything in the world:  anything to be cool again.
        His anxious eyes were never still, except, of course, in sleep.  Even then he was half listening:  ready to hear the first sound of waves beating on the shore, of a shout as a passing ship caught sight of him.  But alas!

Nothing like that ever happened.  There were neither ships nor land, and there were no signs of them, either.  There were no nuts or pieces of wood floating in the water, and there were no birds.  He was a tough man, and used to danger and a hard life, but now he found himself quite without hope as his strange boat drifted into the unknown.
        "Oh let there be a way out of this,"  he found himself saying.  "Let me live.  I don't want to die. Why must I go where the wind blows me, where the sea takes me?  Why am I at the mercy of the wind and the rain?  Oh! to be safe again.  How will it end?"
        But nobody answered him.  Nobody helped him.
       He rolled over onto his side, and once more looked into his water container.  It had been fixed to the raft, and there had been a fishing line and a hook inside it.  When a flying fish had landed beside him, he had used it for bait.  After that he never went hungry.  But it was days now since it had last rained.  His container was almost dry.
        Everything seemed to have stopped.  The world seemed dead.  Even the fishes had left him.  The lazy sound of the porpoises had gone.  He was quite alone.  He felt that nothing could save him.  He was too near the end.
        He wet his cracked lips with a few drops of water.  He shut his eyes and thought back to the time when the trouble had started.
        A Thursday morning it had been, fine and comfortably warm.  The old fishing boat, powered by the diesel engine, had sailed smoothly out of the quiet harbour.  The day passed as so many others had, peacefully and easily.  So did the next one.  But on the third day the wind changed.  It blew more strongly, and the sky darkened. Trouble was coming.

        As each hour passed the wind grew in strength, building the waves up.  By noon, they were roaring and grumbling and lack.  The clouds hung low in the sky.  Lower and lower they came.  Nothing could stop them.  Down they came until day turned to darkness.  Then the rain came, and the thunder and lightning.  And after that the wind blew even more strongly.
        The mountainous waves and deep-sided valleys seemed to swallow the little boat up.  Spray bit at the flesth, blinded the eyes.
        She began to ride more heavily; she sat lower in the water.  Already the sea had come into her, and the weight of it pulled her down.  They did all they could to lighten her.  They cut off the mast.  They pumped.  They threw everything they could into the sea.  But none of it helped.
        They lost all track of time and their whereabouts.  All they could do was to try to keep their ship heading into the wind.  The storm gave no sign of passing.  If anything it seemed to grow stronger; its mad game grew wilder.  They struggled on.
        The end came so suddenly that there was no time to help each other.  The man at the wheel lost his balance and fell.  In the short time it took him to right himself, the ship had slipped sideways, and no longer faced into the wind.
        The waves had her at last,  to play with.  But her play days were done.  She was too full of water to play.  When the great black walls took her and rolled her, she could not get up again.  She lay down in the water.  She was gone.
        The man knew it would happen.  he saw the ship going.  He cut a raft free.  He held on. . . . . . .
        He never knew what happened after he got in the water.  Death kept him company, stared at him, waited.  But somehow he lost her, slipped through her fingers, and lived.
        When the storm passed, and the wind grew tame again:  when the sky lightened and the sun came thorugh, the man found himself still on his raft.  He thought then that he was safe.  He thought he would live.  He thought Death had gone.  He thought so for days.
        Now he knew better.  There was still no land.  The raft was not moving.  His water was gone.
        Time passed.  Evening came, and at last it was cooler.  At last, too, it rained.  Not much, it is true, but enough.  A little wind blew up, and carried him on.  He slept.
        When the thing that he had longed for really came true he did not believe it!  When the raft hit the sand he lay as he had been, spread out and face downwards.
        "It's a dream," he thought.  "It's a trick.  It's a game that Death plays.  She is waiting down there.  There's no land."
        But when morning came, and the clear light was with him, then he found it was true.  the and was hard when he put his hand down and felt it, and little crabs ran on it.  There were shells, and birds were above him.  He could smell the good smell of land.  There were trees.
        He crawled up the beach, and he found some fresh water.  Then he lay down in the shade of a tree, and looked round.
        Everything looked very peaceful.  From he shade of the tree the sun and the sea were no longer enemies.  The sounds that came to his ears were the safe sounds of land.  there was the music of birds singing, of insects, of the dry leaves above him.  He looked up.  There were coconuts, too!
        He stood up and found a tree that was not too high, and whose roots had been loosened, so that it hung over the sand.  It was not easy even then to climb it.  Time after time he had to stop, and shut his eyes, until he felt better.  But at last he was there and two fat coconuts were soon on the sand below him.  His knife made short work of them and soon the sweet milk, the jelly like flesh, was all gone.  Then he lay down to sleep again.......

        A lonely figure walked along the beach.  He was still dressed in rags, but his step was firm, and his body as straight and strong as ever it had been.  His food had been simple, fish coconuts and cool clear water, but it had given him all that he needed.  He had a fire for company now, at night time.  He had taken it from an old hollow tree which had been struck from the soft dry sand at the edge of the beach.  He had lost Count of time, but it could have been a week since first he had come to the place.

        At first he had stayed close to his raft but as he grew stronger he moved further and further from 'home'!  Today, at last, he promised himself he would get right round this small island.  He would find out if there was any sign that men ever visited it.

        The sand ahead of him was bare except for the small paths of crabs and occasional pools.  Behind him, his own footsteps followed him.  He walked on.  He walked further and further.  He had travelled at least four miles before he
noticed it.  There were marks in the sand in front of him!  He ran forward.  He could hardly breathe for excitement.
His heart hammered like a drum.  There were footprints in front of him.  The person, whoever he was, was walking
bare-footed.  They were fresh track; this was as far as they went.  The marks were only a few hours old.  The man hurried forward again, following them.

        Suddenly he saw, far off down the beach, a boy walking towards him.  He ran forward to meet him, calling out as he went.

        "Hello there!  Hello.  Who are you?  Where am I?  Wait for me.  Don't go."  As he ran forward the boy stopped walking.  A look of fright spread over his face, and he turned as if to run.  This bearded, wild looking stranger running unsteadily towards him, was more than his young heart could bear!

        "It's all right.  I won't hurt you.  My name's Bujang.  Look, I've stopped.  There!  Nothing to fear."

        The boy looked over his shoulder, still undecided.  "How did you get here?" he said.

        The man sat down on the sand, and started to tell him the story.  As he talked the boy came nearer,and at last he too sat down, and talked to the man without fear.

        " I want to get back to my home," at last finished Bujang.  "Where do you live?  Can you help me?"

        The boy's name was Paku, and he had come to the island for coconuts.  Together he and the man pushed his boat into the water, and then the boy dug his paddle into the water, and then the boy dug his paddle into the water and headed for the nearest island, which was home.

        One and a half hours afterwards its bow touched the shore.  Together they pulled the boat up.  By the time they had done it everyone was round them, all asking questions.

        Bujang's story was one which everyone wanted to hear.  Day turned  to evening, and evening to night before thr last word was heard.  As the man talked he asked questions and little by little he found out where he was.

        He must have drifted for miles on his raft because these small island were far from mainland.  Moreover thre was no way of leaving them, for the small trading boats did not travel in the landas, and those days had come.

        The man lived happily there while he was waiting for the better weather.  He worked with the others, and Paku's house and his family became as his own.  When the time came to leave he didi not fo alone, but Manna, Paku's sister, went with him as his wife.

        "Don't forget us," called Paku, as the boat drew away.  "Come back. Come back again."