“This coconut shell, rendered and shredded, aloud (sic) us to carrie (sic) on.”

Doctor LeAnne Hurst read the scratches on the coconut tree.

“Learned to hide. Learned to hunt. Learned to catch insects.”

She and the others reached the shore that held the shattered launch that the sea tossed on the island. It astounded her that the ocean had not torn its clients asunder. They had lasted here, cut and alone. No doctor. No radio.

“Luc (sic) ran out.” Said the last note on the last tree.

Dr. Hurst assured the rest that those souls had shared all and died content. “These teachers used their resources. I sense decades in schools hardened their cores, and did not crush their hearts.”

The record closed. The researchers headed to their canoes and decided to call the island “Crash Course”.