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crossing_lostrp. The next thing he knew, the heavens had opened up and decided to pour the entire contents of the Pacific Ocean onto his little corner of the world. Speaking of 'his little corner of the world', Quentin was totally lost as to where that corner actually *was*. All he knew was, about a week ago he had boarded Oceanic flight 815 in Sydney, Australia, bound for Los Angeles and then on to home in Maine, where his cousin Elizabeth lay on what could be her death bed. At some point during the flight, all hell broke loose, as did the tail section of the plane. The next thing he was aware of was an intense feeling of vertigo, and the realization that he was rather high up in the branches of some tropical tree.
Pondering what came after that point, from getting down out of that incredibly tall tree to surviving the intervening days on what scraps he was able to find, Quentin decided that he had definitely had enough of the whole 'roughing it' scene. This sudden deluge was the final straw. "If I don't find the beach or some kind of civilization soon, I think I am going to go utterly mad," Quentin thought to himself. Almost as if on cue, the sudden rainstorm ended with the same abruptness with which it began. "As if things weren't weird enough already..." mused Quentin. The sudden rainstorm (in what appeared to be a totally cloudless sky) was added to the mental tally of weird things that had already shown themselves on this island. It joined the eerie 'whispering voices' wind sound that he had heard on his second night, and the *POLAR BEAR* tracks that he came across last night.
Quentin pressed onward, searching for some sign that there was an actual beach to this supposed island. He figured that once reaching the beach, his chances of a rescue were greatly increased. That was assuming he hadn't already missed the rescue wandering aimlessly through the jungle for the past week.
The telltale first sign that Quentin had found *something* out of the ordinary was the smell and sight of smoke. Not long after that, the trees began to thin out, and he caught a glimpse of gold and blue -- the beach! A few more moments and he had broken through, and finally after 8 days Quentin stepped onto the beach. Dominating this portion of the beach was what appeared to be the burned out fuselage of the plane. What struck Quentin was how uncluttered the sand was - no wreckage, no bodies. It appeared as if someone had stripped the area of both. The answer to who was answered by a quick pan down the length of the beach, where a number of shelters had been constructed out of what appeared to be remnants of the plane. "At least there seem to have been other survivors," Quentin thought. "I wonder how they will react to my sudden appearance so long after the crash. Well, there's no time like the present to find out."
Striking off for the line of shelters, a small worry began to form at the back of Quentin's mind. Over a week and still no rescue? In this day of technology where even Barnabas has installed a telephone at the Old House? That can't be a good sign.
What kind of place have we crashed into?
Pondering what came after that point, from getting down out of that incredibly tall tree to surviving the intervening days on what scraps he was able to find, Quentin decided that he had definitely had enough of the whole 'roughing it' scene. This sudden deluge was the final straw. "If I don't find the beach or some kind of civilization soon, I think I am going to go utterly mad," Quentin thought to himself. Almost as if on cue, the sudden rainstorm ended with the same abruptness with which it began. "As if things weren't weird enough already..." mused Quentin. The sudden rainstorm (in what appeared to be a totally cloudless sky) was added to the mental tally of weird things that had already shown themselves on this island. It joined the eerie 'whispering voices' wind sound that he had heard on his second night, and the *POLAR BEAR* tracks that he came across last night.
Quentin pressed onward, searching for some sign that there was an actual beach to this supposed island. He figured that once reaching the beach, his chances of a rescue were greatly increased. That was assuming he hadn't already missed the rescue wandering aimlessly through the jungle for the past week.
The telltale first sign that Quentin had found *something* out of the ordinary was the smell and sight of smoke. Not long after that, the trees began to thin out, and he caught a glimpse of gold and blue -- the beach! A few more moments and he had broken through, and finally after 8 days Quentin stepped onto the beach. Dominating this portion of the beach was what appeared to be the burned out fuselage of the plane. What struck Quentin was how uncluttered the sand was - no wreckage, no bodies. It appeared as if someone had stripped the area of both. The answer to who was answered by a quick pan down the length of the beach, where a number of shelters had been constructed out of what appeared to be remnants of the plane. "At least there seem to have been other survivors," Quentin thought. "I wonder how they will react to my sudden appearance so long after the crash. Well, there's no time like the present to find out."
Striking off for the line of shelters, a small worry began to form at the back of Quentin's mind. Over a week and still no rescue? In this day of technology where even Barnabas has installed a telephone at the Old House? That can't be a good sign.
What kind of place have we crashed into?
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