"It is a God-given right for a man to bathe. Regularly," asserts Crusoe, leaning against the rocks and letting the water wash over his bare back. "It is utterly unbelievable what every sailor out on the high sea is being subjected to every day of the year. Add in the seasick new deck hands, a lack of fresh clothes, and the sweat of each hard day's work, from every man on board, and you've suddenly, without design, concocted the foulest stench on this green earth. Animal husbandry has yet to top that odor on the hottest day of summer."

Friday scrubbed himself, vigorously, and managed not to be annoyed by Crusoe's inefficient bathing. "This is why I never understood your European urge to build some massive sweat box of a boat. Here is the plan: let us take as much wood as we can find, erect it into the poorest ventilated structure possible, fill it with people and toss it out on the water. This will certainly make for ideal living conditions, on any months-long journey from continent to continent."

"Ah, but how else do you protect yourself from storms on the high seas?"

"Some of us are just intelligent enough to be satisfied with whatever mass of land we are given. Do you ever think your god is trying to tell you something about greed, Crusoe?"

Crusoe went quiet, blinking up into the flow of water. Friday had only been joking, of course, but this did not stop him from wondering. Maybe if he had married more pragmatically, if he'd left off his dreams, if he had just lived a life that wasn't reaching so desperately, all the time, for the next impossible thing, perhaps he wouldn't be here, now, estranged and alone, with only his dreams to comfort him.

"Now I have offended your sensibilities again," said Friday with a grin, white against his dark, wet skin.

He was impossible.

Crusoe felt the sudden urge to be clean, and pushed his forehead into the falling water, rubbing his hands down his face. He shook his head, and cleared water from his nose, and his eyes were wet, but that was alright, here.

After all.. who would Friday tell?