MOST DAYS BEGAN with exercise, though not of the conventional sort. I'd roll off the logs by 7 A.M. and, just as I do back home, start my day with fruit—in this case, coconut. Hacking through the tough fibrous shell of a brown coconut takes considerable effort, but this I anticipated. The curveball was the meat; I didn't realize how stubborn the flesh actually is. Only once did I eat an entire coconut in a sitting, and it took me 40 minutes of committed mastication.

Coconuts were followed by a course of live termites, or, if the tide was low, 20 or so slime nuggets. Sometimes both. Every few days I filled a stockpile of plastic water bottles from the well and drank copiously, both to stay hydrated and to trick my stomach into thinking it was full. The rest of the day was dedicated to projects. Somewhere in there, I filmed and took pictures, and around 3:30 P.M. came the highlight of my day: an hourlong snorkel with beautiful and delicious-looking reef fish. Then I wrote in my notebook, and before nightfall I took a shower with a flotsam bucket in a grimy ankle-deep pool downstream of the well. Darkness fell at 7 P.M. and lasted 11 and a half hours, then the merry-go-round started anew at sunrise. I was lucky if I stole six hours of sleep.

On day six, somewhere between termites and snorkeling, some local fishermen dropped anchor in the bay. The Secas is an isolated archipelago, but not a forgotten one, and fishermen sometimes stop there for food and water. I hid behind a tree, undetected, until one of them headed straight for my camp.

I forced myself out of the bush and said hello. It had been nearly a week since I had seen anyone, and my initial disappointment turned to elation. The fisherman was salty, scruffy, and had the friendliest, most beautiful face I'd ever seen. He explained that they were searching for land crabs for dinner. They're delicious when cooked—not so much raw. I know because I tried. In halting Spanish, I explained why I was there.

"Whoa," the captain said. "How long have you been here?"

"Six days," I told him. The other four fishermen gathered around. They were ten days into a two-week trip.

"And how long will you stay?" another asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "A few weeks. A month."

They looked at each other. "You're crazy," the captain said.

"But you're spending two weeks on your boat, away from home," I countered.

"Yes," said the captain, "but we have each other. And fish!" I laughed enviously. With that they left, but not before the youngest one—he looked like a teenager—brought me two coconuts. I could have gotten them myself, but still it was a nice gesture, a random act of kindness. I had almost forgotten such things.