João Carlinhos Garcia made his way across the deck. The only survivor of a plague that had wiped out the rest of his crew, Garcia knew that his chances were slim. They had been at sea for months when the disease broke out. Soon every other man on the ship bore those strange pock marks and grew tired and listless. They always died a few days later. The lucky ones in their sleep. And yet, as they fell one by one, only Garcia was left.
It was an unfortunate position for him, watching each of his comrades die, and knowing that he would suffer an even worse fate. Without a crew, the ship would drift aimlessly about until it ran ashore or he ran out of food. His best hope was to pray that he inadvertently come across another ship. After many mind-numbingly long days of flying the flag of distress, Garcia was already starting to run low on supplies. He had plenty of biscuits and hardtack, but that precious commodity of fresh drinking water was scarce. He had enough for maybe five or six more days at best.
As he contemplated his future, Garcia scanned the horizon. He was shocked when he realized that -- in the distance but quite distinct -- was an island. Land! It meant that he might yet be able to survive, even if it did mean he might be consigned to lonely exile on some uninhabited rock in the middle of the Atlantic.
Quickly, Garcia dropped anchors and loaded as many supplies as he could onto one of the larger rafts. He had no idea what awaited him on the island... in fact, he had no idea where he even was for that matter. But that didn't really concern him at the moment. Garcia was so concerned with finding fresh water, with finding safe haven, that all he could think about was rowing.
As he got closer to the island, he could see that there was a verdant patch of tropical foliage. Palm fronds, enormous ferns, and exotic, brightly colored flowers loomed off in the distance, gradually giving way to more dense forests. He could see some of the familiar birds gliding close to the shore. As he got closer still, their calls and songs greeted his ears, and he could smell... something... something very fragrant. It was an unearthly feeling when he finally reached ground. Garcia ran barefooted through the surf, the sand and cool water feeling comforting against his swarthy skin.
Garcia wondered where he was. Brazil? The West Indies? Cape Verde? Senegal? Perhaps even in the Congo? As if in response to his question, Garcia was greeted by a fearsome-looking band of black warriors, the sun shining brightly against their muscular ebony frames. Each of them held a long assssegai spear and wore a bright red clothe draped over their shoulders. Their heads were completely shaved clean, but they wore an excessive amount of beaded jewelry, and wore large ornaments through the piercings in their ears. The men regarded him with cold, almost contemptuous stares.
