I, poor miserable Robinson Crusoe, being shipwrecked during a dreadful storm in the offing, came on shore on this dismal, unfortunate island, which I called the Island of Despair. I had no clothes to cover me, nothing to eat or drink but what I found by chance, and no weapon to defend myself.
 
But I resolved not to despair. The first night, I climbed into a tree for fear of wild beasts and slept as best I could. The next day, with the tide low, I swam back to the wreck and found some provisions—bread, rum, and tools—which I carefully brought to shore on a makeshift raft.
 
For several days, I worked tirelessly, bringing everything I could from the wreck before it finally sank. I found gunpowder, shot, and even a few books, which became my only companions. I built myself a small hut against a rock, fortified it with stakes, and made a bed of leaves.
 
As time passed, I grew accustomed to my solitude. I hunted for food, learned to dry grapes into raisins, and even tamed a goat for milk. But still, I longed for human company. Each day, I scanned the horizon, hoping for a ship.
 
Little did I know, my greatest adventure was yet to come.