I cannot say that anything extraordinary happened to me for the next five years. My life continued in much the same way as before. Besides my yearly tasks of planting barley and rice and curing my raisins—of which I always kept a year’s supply in reserve—I spent a great deal of time on a new project. I was determined to build another canoe, and this time, I finally succeeded. By digging a canal six feet wide and four feet deep, I managed to bring the vessel into the creek, even though I had to excavate for almost half a mile.
As for my first boat, which was far too large, it remained where it was as a monument to my own foolishness. I had built it without considering how I would ever launch it. On this second attempt, although I could not find a tree perfectly suited for the task and still faced a long distance to the water, I refused to give up. It took me nearly two years of hard labor, but I did not grudge the effort, as I hoped to finally have a way to go out to sea.
However, once the small boat was finished, I realized it was not large enough for my original plan of crossing to the mainland, which was over forty miles away. Consequently, I abandoned that dangerous design and turned my attention to a more modest goal: sailing around the coast of my own island.
To ensure I acted with proper caution, I fitted a small mast and a sail made from pieces of the ship’s canvas. After testing the boat and finding that she handled well, I built small lockers at each end to keep my provisions, ammunition, and other necessities dry. I even carved a long, hollow place inside the boat where I could lay my gun, protected by a flap of cloth. Finally, I fixed my umbrella at the stern to act as an awning, shielding me from the intense heat of the sun.
On the 6th of November, in the sixth year of my stay on the island, I set out on my voyage. It proved to be much longer and more perilous than I had anticipated. When I reached the eastern side, I discovered a ledge of rocks stretching two leagues into the sea, followed by a great shoal of sand. To avoid these obstacles, I was forced to steer a considerable distance away from the shore.
At first, I considered turning back, as I was uncertain how far I would have to go or if I could even return against the wind. I dropped my anchor—a crude tool I had fashioned from a broken piece of ship's equipment—and climbed a hill to survey the area. From that height, I observed a furious current running to the east, very close to the point. I realized that if I were caught in it, I might be swept out to sea with no hope of returning. However, I also noticed an eddy closer to the shore that seemed to flow in the opposite direction.
I waited for two days because a strong wind was blowing against the current, creating dangerous, breaking waves. On the third morning, the weather calmed, and I ventured out. I should serve as a warning to all inexperienced sailors; for no sooner had I reached the point than I found myself in deep water, caught in a current as violent as a mill-stream. It hurried my boat away from the land with such force that my paddles were useless. There was no wind to help me, and I began to believe I was lost. I anticipated a miserable death—not by drowning, for the sea was calm, but by starvation in the vast, empty ocean.
In that moment, I realized how easily Providence can make a miserable condition even worse. I looked back at my lonely island as if it were the most wonderful place on earth. "O happy desert!" I cried out, "I shall never see you again!" I reproached myself for ever having complained about my solitude. It is a sad truth that we often do not value what we enjoy until we are faced with the prospect of losing it.
I worked until I was nearly exhausted, trying to keep the boat toward the northern side of the current. Around noon, I felt a gentle breeze against my face. This cheered me immensely, and as the wind strengthened, I quickly set my mast and spread my sail. I noticed an alteration in the water; where it had been cloudy and rough, it was now clear. I soon realized that the current had split against some rocks, creating a strong eddy that flowed back toward the northwest.
Those who have been rescued from the very brink of death can imagine my relief. I steered into the eddy and, with the wind behind me, sailed cheerfully back toward the island. By late afternoon, I reached the northern shore, which was the opposite side from where I had started. I fell on my knees and thanked God for my deliverance, resolving then and there never to attempt such a voyage again.
I found a small, sheltered cove where I secured the boat, and being completely exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep. The next morning, I realized it would be too dangerous to try and sail the boat back to my original harbor. Instead, I decided to leave it in a safe inlet and walk home across the land.
I began my march, carrying only my gun and my umbrella. By evening, I reached my old country bower. I climbed over the fence and lay down in the shade to rest. I was soon fast asleep, but I was suddenly awakened by a voice calling my name: "Robin, Robin, Robin Crusoe! Poor Robin Crusoe! Where are you, Robin? Where have you been?"
I was so startled that I woke up in a state of terror. However, as soon as I opened my eyes, I saw my parrot, Poll, sitting on top of the hedge. I realized at once that it was he who was speaking; he was simply repeating the mournful phrases I had taught him. I held out my hand, and the sociable creature sat upon my thumb, seemingly overjoyed to see me again.
After this adventure, I stayed on land for a long time, reflecting on the dangers I had escaped. I lived a very quiet, retired life for the next year, finding comfort in my daily chores and in my resignation to God's will. During this period, I improved my skills in various crafts. I even managed to build a potter's wheel, which allowed me to make much better earthenware than before. I was particularly proud of making a tobacco pipe; though it was clumsy and ugly, it worked perfectly, providing me with much-needed comfort.
I also became more skilled at weaving baskets. Though they were not handsome, they were very practical for carrying meat or storing corn. However, I began to notice that my supply of gunpowder was decreasing. This was a serious concern, for if I ran out of ammunition, I would have no way to kill goats for food.
I realized I needed to find a way to catch goats alive so that I could breed a tame flock. I tried making snares, but without wire, the goats always broke through them. Finally, I decided to try pitfalls. I dug several large pits and covered them with lightweight hurdles and bait. After several failed attempts, I went to my traps one morning and found a large, fierce male goat in one, and three young kids—one male and two females—in another.
I let the old goat go, as he was too wild to handle, but I tied the kids together and brought them home. It took some time, but by feeding them corn from my hand, I eventually made them quite tame. I realized that if I wanted a permanent supply of meat, I would have to keep my tame goats separate from the wild ones. This required an enclosed piece of ground with a sturdy fence.
At first, I foolishly planned a fence that would have been two miles long. I soon realized that if the enclosure were that large, the goats would remain as wild as if they were free. I corrected my mistake and enclosed a smaller area, about 150 yards long and 100 yards wide. In about a year and a half, I had a flock of twelve goats, and within two years more, I had forty-three.
This project brought an unexpected blessing: milk. I set up a small dairy and, despite having never milked a goat or seen butter made except when I was a boy, I eventually learned to make both butter and cheese. It was a remarkable sight—a table spread for me in the wilderness! I had once feared I would perish from hunger, yet here I was, enjoying a variety of food and the many mercies that Providence had provided in spite of my solitary condition.