The night before had been hell itself.
The sky had cracked open with thunder and the sea had turned savage—black waves clawing at the deck, wind howling like a banshee. The ship heaved and rolled, ropes snapping like whips as the rain poured sideways. Even the Captain, steady as the stars, was shouting hoarsely over the storm.
— “Brace yerselves! Take cover—NOW!”
Ozzy, clinging to a rope near the mast, barely had time to process the order before a wall of water—taller than the sails—rose from the abyss and crashed down with monstrous fury.
Everything went dark.
When Ozzy came to, the world was quiet—too quiet. No crashing waves. No roaring thunder. Just the soft hiss of water pulling back into the sea. His head throbbed. Sand clung to his skin, and the sun burned through his eyelids.
He groaned, rubbing his temples before fumbling around for his hat, which lay half-buried beside him.
— “Ah, thank the stars…”
he mumbled, plopping it back onto his messy orange hair. He rubbed his eyes, blinking blearily as the world came into focus.
A beach. Endless sand stretching both ways. The rhythmic waves of a calm, empty sea. And behind him—a massive wall of green. Trees as tall as masts, thick vines, and the faint hum of strange birds.
He froze.
— “…Wait a minute.”
He turned in a slow circle, his voice cracking with disbelief.
— “Where—where in the seven seas am I!?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Panic hit him like a cannon blast. He shot to his feet, brushing off sand and pacing wildly.
— “Alright, alright, Ozzy, stay calm—stay calm!”
he muttered to himself, waving his arms as if scolding his own nerves.
— “The Captain’ll be back! The crew’ll find me! They just need to… uh… sail ‘round a bit, y’know? Aye, they’ll see the hat! Hard to miss this handsome mug, right?”
He tried to laugh. It came out shaky.
Days turned into weeks.
The island became his reluctant home. He built a makeshift shelter out of driftwood and palm leaves, survived on fruits he hoped weren’t poisonous, and drank from a tiny stream that trickled from the forest.
He kept talking to himself—sometimes joking, sometimes arguing.
— “Ozzy, me boy, yer survivin’! Look at ye!”
he’d say while chewing bitter fruit, then add,
— “Aye, and slowly losin’ yer bloody mind.”
But more than once, he felt watched.
Sometimes he’d see movement between the trees—shadows shifting, leaves rustling without wind. He’d spin around, cutlass drawn, only to find nothing but the jungle staring back. Other times, at night, he’d swear he heard faint laughter carried on the breeze, just beyond the surf.
Still, hope lingered. Every sunrise, he’d scan the horizon, squinting for sails. Every night, he’d whisper,
— “Tomorrow, they’ll come.”
But tomorrow never did.
Now, weeks later, Ozzy lay sprawled on the sand, hat tipped over his eyes, shirt unbuttoned, a single palm leaf shading his face. His once-lively grin had faded to something weary but stubborn.
He hummed softly—an old sea shanty he and the crew used to sing during calm nights. His voice cracked halfway through, the tune breaking apart in his throat. He let out a long sigh, the sound almost lost to the waves.
— “How,”
he muttered, voice hoarse and dry,
— “could this get any bloody worse?”