A wretch, and some news

Raft living was not my choice, but I have made as good a go of it as I can. My raft is clean, strongly built, and seaworthy. I am aware of, and take seriously, the warnings of harbour officials, my bodyguards and my doctors. As a result, I have endangered no one except occasionally myself.

Some out on the high seas are not so fortunate.

One wretch in particular I saw in the harbour of an island (of which I will tell more later). He had poled in a raft made of old peach crates, dilapidated and smelly. He proclaimed loudly that he was a refugee, fleeing persecution, and leapt ashore.

His beard was scraggly and his boots untied. He accosted a pilot enjoying a cigarette, badgering him to help him carry his cargo. The pilot gave him an odd look, spoke nothing and continued his cigarette.

Seeing a patch of free land, the wretch dropped his noisesome sacks and began to set up a tent. This action drew the attention of the harbour police, who with some shouting and waving of sticks, drove him back on to his raft, and pushed him back into the harbour.

He did not struggle... rather as they badgered him back onto his raft, he entreated other sailors to invite him to their islands to set up his tent. Last seen he was poling out into shipping lanes, loudly declaring his desperate state.

In fairness, I should point out that I viewed this, not as a raftsman, but as a labourer. I had taken up employment on the docks of this island unloading and loading boats. It's the same island I had snuck onto earlier, where I had napped, and had found myself, coincidentally I'm sure, near it again.

It is very disconerting to work on dry land again, to not experience the rocking of my raft under my feet. It is with relief then that I sleep on my raft, drifting among the islands and boats in the maritime darkness.