A Voluntary Shipwreck
Text and Photos by Nester Nuñez (Joven Cuba)
HAVANA TIMES – And when one of those dreadful nights arrived —you never know if it will be the worst or if an even darker one is yet to come— Manchuco decided to become a castaway on his own terms. It was a conscious decision, he thought, because he never liked things to happen by chance or for others to decide his fate. Yet in truth, all he was doing was accelerating the ship of his life, which for years had been on an uncertain course, seemingly bound to flounder again, captained and steered by someone clueless about navigating toward prosperous shores.
Manchuco packed pots, knives, clothes, and durable food into a spacious backpack, along with a few other essentials, and made a turn toward a spot on the map known as Puerto Escondido. Based on what he had gleaned about shipwrecks from books and movies, and what common sense told him, it was the perfect place to immerse himself in solitude, fail without anyone knowing, endure thirst and hunger, and one day rise from the ashes, self-assured.
He set up camp under the shadows of seaside grape trees and crafted a rudimentary stove out of stones. His remaining energy allowed him to gather water from the river and collect sea snails and rock crabs—tough fossils that added bitterness and scant protein to a soup that was as hot as it was meager. Nevertheless, he slept deeply in the early hours. The mild winter breeze kept sand flies and mosquitoes at bay, and the unfamiliar nocturnal sounds on dry leaves, which initially kept him alert, eventually became a lullaby, almost like a soothing nursery rhyme that transported him back to his childhood.
He dreamed of soda crackers, chocolate bars, roasted pork, and the laughter of his emigrant siblings and mother. He dreamed of a blue scarf around his neck, an orange lollipop, and a kite in the colors of the flag soaring from the rooftop. Closer to dawn, as he was obliged to open his eyes and leave the dream, he saw the tail of a roosterfish bristling with blades, felt a wild wind that blew his imagination and kite to smithereens like a sad song, and woke up to the racket of his stomach—not from hunger or sickness, but from doubts and fears.
When he barely managed to steady himself on the ground, dizziness and tremors overtook him. The overwhelming awareness of the clouds above, the vastness of the sea, the ferocity of the jagged rocks, and above all, the insignificance of human dreams and worries in the grand scheme of nature, caused a wave of nausea and a strong impulse to return to his insufficient yet secure existence. Before packing to leave, he sat beside a fallen tree, resting his hands on his knees that could no longer bear his weight.
A vulture rummaged through the tiny remains of the snails from the previous night, and a finch flew to its nest in the sea-grape tree with a worm in its beak, while Manchuco stared blankly at the blue of the sea and the small crests of the waves, seeing none of it. He didn’t hear the water against the rocks or his own breathing. Ants and flies invaded the soup pot. The universe continued its cycle of life and death, indifferent to Manchuco, who sat mute with dry eyes, looking like an extension of the withered log against which he leaned.
After the realization of solitude, the next thing that happens to castaways is the loss of time. Manchuco had deliberately left behind his watch and phone. The sunset caught him in the same position, and it startled him because, in his mind, decades had passed, not hours. He even thought, or had a fleeting suspicion, that when he returned to civilization, his acquaintances would be old—or worse, that no one would remain, that humanity would have gone extinct. The idea of being the only survivor neither chilled nor comforted him. If you survive a shipwreck, either you passionately embrace even the faintest traces of life, or death, however brutal, cease to matter. It’s the same as returning from the frontlines of war.
At some point in his stupor, Manchuco focused on a snail very much like those he had boiled the previous night. He saw that the creature and its shell were one. That the little being, its shell, and the immediate environment shared similar shapes and colors. What did it eat? Why didn’t it move? Did everything it needed to exist come encoded in its genes, or did certain synapses form in its improbable tiny brain? Is having a brain necessary for intelligence? What is intelligence, and what purpose does it serve? Is it merely to complete our life cycle, or does happiness somehow relate to intelligence?
These questions floated like low gray clouds as Manchuco, unconcerned with answers, carved his name into the wood of a tree with a knife, with a rough calligraphy. Beneath it, he etched two parallel lines, marking his two exemplary nights as a castaway, and sighed as if beginning to exist—or perhaps it was not a sigh but a muted cry.
Manchuco then laid down on the warm sand and saw on the horizon an abstract shark formed by water droplets and vapors, a flag on its mast, and the profile of a long-haired woman. Finding shapes in clouds is like painting without a brush, expressing the fears, desires, and contradictions of the human soul in an external format that transcends the immediacy of our bodies. There were also three large jigua trees and a sea cockroach in the sky. Watching them, Manchuco fell asleep.
When morning came, he ate stale bread, drank water, and set about establishing a survival routine. He better secured his shelter, inventoried his provisions, and stored dry firewood. Nearby, he found edible fruits and bird eggs, and he built fish traps. Afterward, he bathed in the sea to cleanse himself of sweat and dust. Walking barefoot to the shoreline, he felt the searing blood pulse from his heart to the prickling rocks beneath his feet. When he plunged into the water, its coldness shocked him. He let out a curse but swam vigorously to warm up before returning to camp to explore the surroundings.
From books and movies, he knew he needed to climb the highest peak to confirm whether his prison was an island. No famous shipwreck had occurred on a continent—at least not in the stories told in literature and cinema. The sensation of leaving your old life behind, starting anew, experiencing not hunger or thirst but loneliness, bewilderment, and emptiness—hitting rock bottom and then finding the best within yourself where you thought nothing remained—is a universal story, repeated in the thousands of anonymous shipwrecks that occur everywhere.
Eventually, Manchuco’s climb lost its meaning. Real life is where you measure yourself, where you must rise again and again like a phoenix—not in some simulated escape to a hidden port. Even so, he avoided thorny bushes and steep bends, completing the final ascent with his gaze fixed solely on where he placed his boots, as if his feet were vain and he felt ashamed.
But the higher the summit you conquer, the greater the reward. Self-esteem grows, the body finally relaxes, and the spirit is rewarded with the sight of the landscape. That was what happened when Manchuco surrendered to the beauty of nature. “The success of a castaway lies in not comparing oneself to others,” he told himself, smiling for the first time. He resolved not to belittle himself.
Embracing life’s challenges and finding joy despite the circumstances is worthy of praise. Robinson Crusoe found his Friday. Perhaps Manchuco needed to find a stray dog to tame, or to write a large SOS in the sand. But it wouldn’t just be a plea; it would be artfully crafted from stones and sticks, embodying not only urgency but also the essence of a castaway conscious of his fragility yet filled with dreams and aspirations, which do not consist of remaining motionless on a dry stone, camouflaged to go unnoticed by predators..
And there, where the ground called for it, he envisioned a great bonfire, to light up the darkness and provide warmth. To sing and dance around the fire as the night falls, wherever you’ve been shipwrecked.
First published in Spanish by Joven Cuba and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.