In a bottle was found this scrawled letter, though it was recovered far inland:
She was beautiful, and so far from me. Like a distant ship out to sea when some morning haze interferes, when the cool ocean breezes are twisting and turning at your side, I saw her from my desert isle, from the sandy coast of my exile. Some feeble hope, we all must hope, thought that the ship might rescue me, that I had found a way back to harbor and home. And I waved and danced, and all I could I did to catch her eye, even for pity. On she sailed. She was beautiful.
My Island is familiar now; the solitude is dear. The fishing’s good. Here I am king.
Now and again I see a ship so beautiful some part remembers, some hopeful embers rekindle, and I grow still; and into the misty sea I gaze. No, that castaway is tired now, despair is his companion. One day he’ll wed, and then forever bound, in his grave with death will lie. I hope for a long engagement.
I go to dig the hole—one knows not when he’ll die.
Tale Told 