I was so glad to have gotten off of the island after all of those years. I was glad to be seeing all of my friends again, and they were glad to spend time with me. That is what people tend to do when they find out that someone that they thought was dead is really quite alive. I was never lonely. Still, I couldn't help remembering a friend that I had lost.

I was walking along the beach one Saturday morning, about three weeks after I had been rescued. It's funny. You would think that after all of that time on the island, I would stay clear from the ocean. I wouldn't want to be near the sand, the waves, the palm trees. The thing is, though, it gives me a strange sense of belonging. I guess that you can't live in a place so long, and then totally forget about it, no matter how much you didn't want to be there.

I was just going for my morning walk on the beach, when suddenly I saw something bobbing in the water. Was that a little kid out there drowning? "Hey!" I yelled, "Are you okay out there?"

When there was no reply, I ran to the shoreline and jumped in, swimming out toward the bobbing head. I couldn't let someone drown. After all, that would be even worse of a fate than being stranded on an island after a plane crash.

Once I got closer to the person, I realized that it wasn't a person after all. It was volleyball. Oh my gosh, I thought to myself, it couldn't be! But it was. I could see from the markings that the volleyball was Wilson.

My beloved friend from the island had made it back to me. I knew that I could always count on him. I took him home, and put him on my shelf, right next to my bed. Wilson is the only happy memory from the island, and I am so glad to have him back.

He will be forever mine.