I’m calm accepting the fact that I am going to die any day now. I’ve been alone on this island for 105 days. I’ve been living off of bugs, coconuts, crabs, fish and the occasional rain water. My charter plane go to caught into a storm 105 days ago, my friend, Jerry, was with me too. I don’t remember much, but I do remember floating on top of the guts of my prized possession and swimming to this island. I looked for Jerry in the ruins of the plane for a while. On day 4 his body washed onto shore, so I guess on day 4 I wasn’t too alone. I gave him a proper burial, though I don’t really want to talk about that anymore.

I managed to scavenge for bits and bobs of food and strike a fire with the lighter I always kept in my secret jean pocket. I sewed a lighter and cigarette sized pouch inside my favorite jeans to hide my smoking habits from my wife. I’m glad I lied to my wife.

For a while, the island wasn’t too bad. I had fire, food, and even managed to build a small fort out of palm leaves, bark, and mud. I watched the stars every night and took a leisurely swim each morning. I enjoyed myself - until I didn’t. On night 54, I heard Jerry’s all too familiar molasses voice call out my name. I shot out of my hut and desperately tore through the island trying to find the sound. I visited his grave and dug through the shards of sand until I saw him. Still dead. My knuckles bled as I dragged myself back to the hut.

I remember the first time I met Jerry. I was 12 years old sitting with my scrawny legs dangling over the brown tinted water of Culver Lake. When my parents fought, I ran to the lake for hours until the sun kissed the horizon. This day, Jerry sat next to me on the splintered doc and handed me half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with chunky peanut butter, like a psychopath. It was my favorite. He told me he had just moved into town, and that he was looking for a quiet place to read.

Since that day, we’ve explored countries and participated in every death defying activity together for over 30 years. When I married my wife, he was my best man. When he came out to the world and introduced his partner, Stephen, I became his only family.

A few months ago, Jerry and I visited Culver Lake during our high school reunion trip. We sat on that very same deck and shared a few cigarettes and a bottle of Whiskey. The moon bounced off of the dark surface of the lake water and illuminated his dark eyes. I kissed him. It tasted like smoke and lost time. I told him it was a mistake and we never spoke about it again.

My legs are broken from a failed attempt to gather more coconuts out of a tall palm tree, and I can no longer gather food or water. I sit hear writing this on dried bark with burnt pieces of wood as I can no longer run away from my thoughts. I don’t want to be found. I need to stay here on this island until my time has come and the tide takes me back to him. My time is coming.

I don’t know who I want to find this letter. I wish things could have been different. My dearest Jerry, I will meet you at Culver Lake with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Chunky peanut butter of course, just how you like it.

….

I see a lights peaking over the horizon… I hear a horn…