My memory could kick in, and I'd write poems about people back home. If I had no paper or pen I'd write in the sand. It's economical and ecologically sound. Of course, when the tide came up the words would be erased. By then I would have memorized the poem.
Words move inside.
I've fantasized my rescue, too. The sailors arrive and ask how I spent my days. I point to the blank beach with a touch of pride. Well, I made something. They shake their heads seeing nothing but damp sand and the sole pitiful palm.