He pressed on, wandering away from the rocks. He was running low on time. The tides threatened his fate. He wondered if he would reach the coast, just the coastline would be enough for him to find his way. Nature was ruthless. Seagulls would fly by; fish and sea turtles swam by, paying no attention to his tragedy, his thirst, his hunger, his loneliness, his destiny. Many days passed and he was about to give up when he thought he saw the top of a tree. Perhaps it was a mirage, an hallucination. Exhausted, he still found a bit of strength to row. When he reached the beach, he was greeted by an avalanche of tourists wearing straw hats and extreme brown tans, holding exotic cocktails. It was a mirage; it had to be a mirage. He hopped back on the raft and rowed back towards the sea. It was with great dismay that the tourists saw his boat throw itself against a rock and sink. He died surrounded by a mirage of real people wondering if it had all been a show, an extreme show to entertain them.