I found myself constantly brooding over statements made in one form by St.Matthew, and in another by St.Luke; and I conjured up endless theological arguments and theories, until I was driven nearly frantic.Much as I regretted it, I was compelled at last to give up reading my New Testament, and by the exercise of a strong will I forced myself to think about something totally different.
It took me a long time to overcome this religious melancholia, but I mastered it in the long run, and was greatly delighted when Ifound I could once more read without being hypercritical and doubtful of everything.Had I been cast on a luxuriant island, growing fruits and flowers, and inhabited at least by animals--how different would it have been! But here there was nothing to save the mind from madness--merely a tiny strip of sand, invisible a few hundred yards out at sea.
When the fits of depression came upon me I invariably concluded that life was unbearable, and would actually rush into the sea, with the deliberate object of putting an end to myself.At these times my agony of mind was far more dreadful that any degree of physical suffering could have been, and death seemed to have a fascination for me that I could not resist.Yet when I found myself up to my neck in water, a sudden revulsion of feeling would come over me, and instead of drowning myself I would indulge in a swim or a ride on a turtle's back by way of diverting my thoughts into different channels.
Bruno always seemed to understand when I had an attack of melancholia, and he would watch my every movement.When he saw me rushing into the water, he would follow at my side barking and yelling like a mad thing, until he actually made me forget the dreadful object I had in view.And we would perhaps conclude by having a swimming race.These fits of depression always came upon me towards evening, and generally about the same hour.
In spite of the apparent hopelessness of my position, I never relinquished the idea of escaping from the island some day, and accordingly I started building a boat within a month of my shipwreck.
Not that I knew anything whatever about boat-building; but I was convinced that I could at least make a craft of some sort that would float.I set to work with a light heart, but later on paid dearly for my ignorance in bitter, bitter disappointment and impotent regrets.For one thing, I made the keel too heavy; then, again, I used planks that were absurdly thick for the shell, though, of course, I was not aware of these things at the time.
The wreck, of course, provided me with all the woodwork I required.
In order to make the staves pliable, I soaked them in water for a week, and then heated them over a fire, afterwards bending them to the required shape.At the end of nine months of unremitting labour, to which, latterly, considerable anxiety--glorious hopes and sickening fears--was added, I had built what I considered a substantial and sea-worthy sailing boat, fully fifteen feet long by four feet wide.It was a heavy ungainly looking object when finished, and it required much ingenuity on my part to launch it.
This I eventually managed, however, by means of rollers and levers;but the boat was frightfully low in the water at the stern.It was quite watertight though, having an outer covering of sharks' green hide, well smeared with Stockholm tar, and an inside lining of stout canvas.I also rigged up a mast, and made a sail.When my boat floated I fairly screamed aloud with wild delight, and sympathetic Bruno jumped and yelped in unison.
But when all my preparations were complete, and I had rowed out a little way, I made a discovery that nearly drove me crazy.I found I had launched the boat in a sort of lagoon several miles in extent, barred by a crescent of coral rocks, over which I COULD NOTPOSSIBLY DRAG MY CRAFT INTO THE OPEN SEA.Although the water covered the reefs at high tide it was never of sufficient depth to allow me to sail the boat over them.I tried every possible opening, but was always arrested at some point or other.After the first acute paroxysm of despair--beating my head with my clenched fists--I consoled myself with the thought that when the high tides came, they would perhaps lift the boat over that terrible barrier.
I waited, and waited, and waited, but alas! only to be disappointed.My nine weary months of arduous travail and half-frantic anticipation were cruelly wasted.At no time could I get the boat out into the open sea in consequence of the rocks, and it was equally impossible for me unaided to drag her back up the steep slope again and across the island, where she could be launched opposite an opening in the encircling reefs.So there my darling boat lay idly in the lagoon--a useless thing, whose sight filled me with heartache and despair.And yet, in this very lagoon I soon found amusement and pleasure.When I had in some measure got over the disappointment about the boat, I took to sailing her about in the lagoon.I also played the part of Neptune in the very extraordinary way I have already indicated.I used to wade out to where the turtles were, and on catching a big six-hundred-pounder, I would calmly sit astride on his back.
Away would swim the startled creature, mostly a foot or so below the surface.When he dived deeper I simply sat far back on the shell, and then he was forced to come up.I steered my queer steeds in a curious way.When I wanted my turtle to turn to the left, I simply thrust my foot into his right eye, and vice versa for the contrary direction.My two big toes placed simultaneously over both his optics caused a halt so abrupt as almost to unseat me.Sometimes I would go fully a mile out to sea on one of these strange steeds.It always frightened them to have me astride, and in their terror they swam at a tremendous pace until compelled to desist through sheer exhaustion.
Before the wet season commenced I put a straw thatch on the roof of my hut, as before stated, and made my quarters as snug as possible.
