Struck with astonishment, Selkirk puts his foot on the helm, and seizes his oars; but oars are powerless to move so heavy a machine. What is to be done?
He who has not been able to endure isolation in the midst of a terrestrial paradise, from which he has just voluntarily exiled himself, must he then he reduced to have for an asylum, on the immensity of the ocean, only a few trunks of trees scarcely lashed together?
The situation is frightful, terrific; Selkirk dares not contemplate it, lest his reason should give way. He must have a sail; a mast! He has his spare sail; for the mast, his only resource is to detach one of the timbers which compose the frame-work of his raft. Perhaps this will destroy its solidity; but he has no choice.
He takes the best of his hatchets, chooses among the straight stems of which his floating dwelling is composed, that which seems most suitable; he cuts away with a thousand precautions, the bonds which fasten it; he frees it, not without difficulty, from the contact of other logs to which it has been attached. But while he devotes himself to this task, the raft, obedient to a mysterious motion of the sea, has slowly drifted on; the surface is covered with foam, as if sub-marine waves are lashing it. Selkirk springs to the helm; the tiller breaks in his hands; he seizes the oars, they also break. An unknown force hurries him on. He has just fallen into one of those rapid currents which, from north to south, traverse the waters of the Pacific Ocean.
Borne away in a contrary direction from that which he has hitherto pursued, the land of which he had come in search seems to fly before him. Whither is he going? Into what regions, into what solitudes of the sea is he to be carried, far from islands and continents?
To add to his terror, in these latitudes, where day suddenly succeeds to night and night to day, where twilight is unknown, the sun, just now shining brightly, suddenly sinks below the horizon.
In the midst of profound darkness, the unhappy man pursues this fatal race, leading to inevitable destruction. During a part of this terrible night, he hears the frail frame-work which supports him cracking beneath his feet. How long must his sufferings last? He knows not. At last, jostled by adverse waves, shaken to its centre, the raft begins to whirl around, and something heavier than the shock of the wave comes repeatedly to give it new and rude blows. The first rays of the rising moon, far from calming the terrors of the unhappy mariner, increase them. In his dizzy brain, these wan rays which silver the surface of the sea, seem so many phantoms coming to be present at his last moments. Pale, bent double, with his hair standing upright, clinging to some projection of his barque, he in vain attempts to fix his glance on certain strange objects which he sees ascending, descending, and rolling around him.
They are the trunks of the trees which formed a part of his raft, limbs detached from its body, and which, now drawn into the same whirlpool, are by their repeated shocks, aiding in his complete destruction.
In face of this imminent, implacable death, Selkirk ceases to struggle against it. He has now but one resource; the belief in another life. The religious instinct, which has already come to his assistance, revives with force. Clinging with his hands and feet to these wavering timbers, which are almost disjoined, half inundated by the wave, which is encroaching more and more upon his last asylum, he directs his steps towards the spot where he had deposited his arms and furs; he takes from among them his Bible, not to read it, but to clasp it to his heart, whose agitation and terror seem to grow calm beneath its sacred contact.
He then attempts to absorb his thoughts in God; he blames himself for not having been contented with the gifts he had received from Him; he might have lived happily in Scotland, or in the royal navy. It is this perpetual desire for change, these aspirations after the unknown, which have occasioned his ruin.