Fevrier 4, 2035
There are only 12 of us left, out of our rapscallicious 28. The remaining women have fallen into alternating bouts of crying and/or making out.
The men don't know whether to kill them or join in the fray.
Best to stay put and see what the new day brings.
Janvier 21, 2035
We've run out of Crystal's Hot Sauce... The buccaneers are starting to revolt. Soon our battallion will be reduced to a measely platoon.
If we don't find some hot sauce... or a lot of salt... stat. We will most surely perish.
It was the only thing helping to keep the rotting fruit palatable... for the time being. Without it, we would surely all have scurvy.
So, now we go in search of the hidden island what holds the mysterious magical fruit what turns everything into sweet, sweet nectar.
The way I see it, and don't tell the guys, we only have two and a half weeks left before we all die from starvation or suicide.
I'll give it to the end of sunrise, 60 clicks from this spot where we lay anchor for just a little while, until we turn back in search of our beloved salt lick.
She makes for a good fallback in times such as this...