Come 6:00 AM in my time zone and no daily prompt. I’m lost. Somebody forgot to set the timer this morning. Heads will role at WordPress.
Come 7:00 AM more of the same.
So here is what I’m working on this morning, my novel. It’s entitled Galapagos Man. This portion of the story takes place during World War Two. This is what I wrote this morning:
Alex rummaged through the cockpit and found a map. On the map was a doted line from an island in the Caribbean, Barbuda, to Fort Sherman in the Canal Zone, to Genovesa Island in the Galapagos chain, to Baltra Island slightly southwest of Genovesa and finally to Talara, Ecuador. The distance from Genovesa to Baltra he estimated to be sixty to seventy miles across the sea. The thought flashed through his mind to fashion a raft from available materials and try to make it to a nearby island, but Alex knew nothing about building a seaworthy vessel, sailing, and currents. The fear of drifting to open sea was more than a mere probability, it was likely. Leaving the island would be a last resort, besides from his inventory he had as much as sixty days of c-rations.
Water was a concern. There were four full canteens from the cockpit. Three of which he had all ready consumed while digging graves and burying treasure. Then he remembered the six cases of beer in wreckage. “Six cases of beer,’ he mumbled and smiled. “Now that’s a party.”
Alex walked toward a volcanic crater near the middle of the island. He reasoned that if any rescue mission did come they would be there for hours so he began to explore his surroundings. He zigzagged around and over bushes and rocks for nearly three-quarters of a mile coming to rest at the rim of a crater. It was filled with water. He slid down the lip of the crater to the water’s edge and sipped the water. “Salt water,” he said. “I think the lord is telling me something, beer.”