Dear Diary -
It's been the better part of a year now that I've been shipwrecked on this godforsaken island. My rations have dwindled almost to zero, and a rescue seems less likely with each passing day. Why, oh why, did I ever agree to sail with this cursed "armada"? I ought to have my head examined; however, there doesn't appear to be a psychiatrist at hand on this island. Only other doomed souls shouting words like "permit", "assays" and "DTCC", and someone who keeps ladling out a vile concoction called "grog" for us to swallow. I swear, this grog must be full of mind-melting psychotropic chemicals that make us docile and easy to fool - what else can explain the fact that I've kept faith in this mission for so long? Lately, people have been talking of a rescue coming next spring. They said the same thing last August! Pish posh! Fool me once ....
I must get off this island, or I am doomed. I have constructed a makeshift raft out of bamboo stalks and palm leaves, and I shall be leaving Monday morning. It will be a risky journey, fraught with peril, but I must leave this island of the damned. It is my only hope.
