Disclaimer: I do not own this dangling plot thread, only what I pulled up on the end of it.
I'll be surprised if no one else has considered this.
Ah, well. You don't argue with plotbunnies, especially the rabid ones.
(Edit 11/05: As per my new policy, anonymous reviews get answered in my profile.)
William Turner, better known as Bootstrap Bill to his erstwhile comrades, couldn't help but wonder whether Barbosa had really thought out his plan properly. It wasn't as though this would kill him.
Except perhaps out of boredom.
Granted, he had panicked for a few moments himself after being thrown overboard before realizing that he was still under the curse. He hadn't been able to free himself before sinking out of the region where the light filtered through the water, and he couldn't exactly see where he had landed. He certainly felt the impact, though, and perhaps only imagined he could feel the silt of the seafloor stirred up around him. And it wasn't as though he had anything else to do.
The ropes were tough, designed to withstand seawater. And the knots were good and tight. But a few months of decay and stubborn, tireless picking took their toll, especially after he found a jagged shell to use on the more intractable places.
He was extremely embarrassed when it finally occurred to him to just take his boots off.
There were no signs to guide him, so he just picked a direction and started walking, leaving the cannon where it had fallen. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do now, either.
And who knew, he might end up at the same island as Jack.
It was probably a good thing that the island he did find was deserted. At least he didn't have to give awkward explanations on moonlit nights.
He soon realized that there wasn't much for him to do, since he didn't need food, or water, or shelter. But he didn't really want to walk somewhere else, either; he'd had more of the seafloor than he'd ever wanted to encounter.
So he started building a boat.
It took a long time with only one person and no proper tools.
But he had plenty of time.
Eventually, the boat was finished, though he had nowhere to sail it to.
Boredom eventually won out, and he got it into the water, and then learned to sail it by himself. A few trips – careful to only go during the daytime, and not to approach any other people closely – gave him a rough idea of where he was.
But he stopped venturing out after a while. He didn't want to risk drawing his former crewmates' attention to the fact that he was no longer at the bottom of the ocean. He would have tried to find his son, but he didn't want the Black Pearl to find the boy, either. Not to mention that the situation would have been hard to explain.
And then the night came when he swatted away an insect by his ear and then realized that he had felt its legs brush his skin, and the impact on his hand. He lifted his arm up and saw his hand against the moon, human, not skeletal.
He was glad the next morning that he had found and stocked food and water in the boat despite not needing it before. He would need it now.
The wind was with him as he steered away from the island where he had spent the past few years, and he relished being able to feel the spray on his face again.
He had some people and a story to find.
