First tip for getting a grip: Stop talking so much. There's no one to listen and you'll just wear out your throat, especially since you have no fresh water to drink. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course there is fresh water. These desert island stories always have a fresh water source; otherwise, no story. Only death. And I've given up hope for that.
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If his glasses are still on his stupid face, maybe his cellphone is still in his stupid hip pocket. Then he can get Doordash or Uber Eats. Problem solved. (C’mon, that makes as much sense as anything else that has happened so far.)
Weelbur walked along the beach, alone.
It was dreadfully lonely on the little island, with not even a dog to order to be a chick magnet, a cat to threaten, a pair of goldfish to make look at each other dubiously, or a karaoke to sing. There were only waves, sand, and a purple sky with purple clouds.
He stood it as long as possible, and then he went mad.
It started quite slowly. As he walked along he had a glimpse of something out of the corner of his glasses. Turning with the heaving elephantine slowness that was as close as he could manage to "speed", he found nothing. But a moment later, again out of the corner of his glasses, there it was again, on his other side!
It went on for some time before he finally realised what it must be. "Eshtelle!" he bawled. "Fabiana! Why are you two hiding from me?"
Then he realised that it was a game that were playing, and that he had to work to catch them at it. So he pretended to go to a palm tree to sleep, then, with a meaty hand clamped around the trunk, swung himself around in a circle. But no matter how quick he was, they'd hid again!
He became at first interested, then frustrated, and then at last as abusive as Arther Zerro trying to extract money from a scam victim. He picked up some fallen coconuts and flung them back over his shoulders in the hope that one of them would strike Eshtelle or Fabiana and knock them out. Then he saw a hermit crab in a rock pool, who used an old tin can as a home, and decided to train it to look for Fabiana and Eshtelle in one direction while he looked in another.
The crab, whose name was Pincher Moretin (not that it matters) pinched his finger so hard that he jumped back, fell over, hit his head, and knocked himself out.
When he opened his eyes there were Mexican coast guards looking down at him, talking among themselves in Mexicanish. Weelbur moaned and groaned to himself in Charterstonian as he sat up, and one of the Mexicans, who was a linguist, asked him what he was doing on the island.
"I fell off a ship," Weelbur said. "I mean, we fell off a ship."
"¿We? ¿You are not alone?"
"No, there are two women on the island with be, Eshtelle and Fabiana. They just be somewhere."
The Mexicans glanced at each other, and one shook his head.
"We find nobody. ¿Are you sure?"
"Yes, they were hiding from me."
"¿They were hiding from you? ¿Why? ¿Were you hurting them?"
"¿Did they jump off the ship because you were, ah, chase them?"
Weelbur's mind went back to a half memory of hate karaoke singing at Eshtelle and another of being on a cruise deck with Eshtelle, the two merging with another half memory of Fabiana and yet another of crawling through shrubbery.
"AAAAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH!" he screamed.
Mary saw the article headline in the side bar of a news website while on the way to her latest meddle (finding an endearing quirk to foist on Eshtelle to take her mind off her loss). "Man thought to have murdered two women arrested off Mexico".
"Too late to meddle that one, " she thought, and switched to a lifestyle page to read the comments.
None of us should be surprised that Wilbur thinks of food before water. Also, was he ever ON the wagon?
Yesterday I convinced myself that this is all a drunken dream of Wilbur’s, and that he would wake up on his sofa after a drunken stupor. Only a dream could have Wilbur surviving a plunge like this one and washing ashore on an island with his glasses, belt, and most of his clothing, intact, and not suffering from shock at all. So that was going to be my fearless prediction today. Well, that appears to be not the case - KM really does think we’ll accept all her horse hockey. Good grief.
How about this scenario: Fabiana shows up at Charterstone, dressed in black (with a veil!) and claiming to be Wilbur’s widow. “Here is the emerald wedding ring he gave me! My cousin, Pedro, right here with me, will swear that is so!” Estelle faints on the spot.
Wanders, maybe “Bali H’ai” should be added to the Charterstone Jukebox.
"Fabiana shows up at Charterstone, dressed in black (with a veil!) and claiming to be Wilbur’s widow. “Here is the emerald wedding ring he gave me! My cousin, Pedro, right here with me, will swear that is so."
Too interesting. Therefore can't be allowed to happen.
I agree, when was Weelbur ever on the wagon?
Anyway, get ready for Weelbur in a bushy Bluto beard.
How likely is it that Wilbur would remember everything--or even anything--he did on the ship before falling into the water, and how likely is it that he would not at least have a hangover?
I remember poorly executing my first try at a dive from the "high" (maybe 15-16') diving board at a local pool when I was in 7th grade. The result was a partial belly flop that was so painful that feared I had split open like an over-boiled hot dog. But Wilbur, due to his peak physical condition, has suffered no damage at all from falling what looked to be at least 100 feet above the water. So, yeah, it's probably a dream.
The average drop from the deck of a cruise ship is about 150 feet to 275 feet. A drop from this distance is absolutely deadly, even if you don't hit the ship on the way down, or are sucked under the ship after hitting the water. Most are dead BEFORE they hit the water. Not to mention this moron was three sheets to the wind before he fell, making survival even less likely than the zero percent it already was.
And what, this oaf just "wakes up" on a beach?????? This would infer that he just floated there without swimming!!!!! Another impossible thing to happen. AND, with his glasses STILL on!
Lastly, we know that a fall from that height would certainly kill you, but if by some miracle you somehow survived the fall, you would be horribly injured, but this doofus just seems to shake it off for crying out loud! This just too much.......
@Yahoonski, Ha haaa, good memory, eh?
When I was 15 or 16, I was trying to impress some girls at the pool, so I went up on the high board. When I dove, I tucked my head in too soon. I went completely over and landed flat on my back. As I slowly sunk to the bottom of the pool, my optic nerves were flashing deep red and my back was on fire. When I eventually climbed out, my buddies were laughing themselves sick.
Well, I wasn't gonna go out like that. So I went up again. And I did the same thing. And that was the end of my high-board career.
I didn't look to see if the girls were impressed.
-- Scottie McW.
Well, here's his problem.. Wilbur thinks he fell off a WAGON. Suspending disbelief because he is, after all, a comic strip character and possibly immortal (unfortunately), I'm enjoying the coming moment when he's frantically waving his arms at the ship as it makes its way back to where he fell off the (ahem) wagon. I'm hopeful this will happen just before dinner is served onboard, thereby solving his dilemma about food.
Our only hope now is that Moy has read An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. But since Wilbur's island has no Fabiana-shaped jars of mayonnaise, this can't be a dream.
I appreciate your analysis of Wilbur's 0 chance of having survived the fall but it is pointless when discussing anything coming from the pen of Karen Moy. As we all know, the only reason "Mary Worth" is still published is that it's so bad it's good. I am sure KM is under no illusions otherwise and for that reason she never disappoints. June does a fine job but I still miss Uncle Joe.
Must be June had to allow Wilbur to somehow hang on to his glasses. Now he’ll be able to use them to start a fire.
Wilbur will of course be rescued as Estelle jumps into his flabby arms. He will refuse to see the ship's doctor, instead insisting to be flown to the Mayo Clinic 'cause it has Mayo in the name. Then, on his triumphant shipboard return, he and the braindead 'Stelle will be married by the ship's Captain, Oscar, on Feb. 14th. Mark my words!
How liquored up would you have to be so that you do not wake up after falling in the ocean from at least 100 feet and then being tossed around in the waves for at least an hour? I'd think he'd be dead from alcohol poisoning at that point.
Even Leo Dicaprio didn't try to stand right up on the ship deck. He was still behind part of the barrier.
Ship railing, I should say.
Worst case scenario: Wilbur is marooned for a long time, lives by his wits, climbs coconut trees for sustenance, spears fishes, becomes increasingly self confident, and when he is rescued….he is slim, trim, muscular, and very buff. However, with his (by then) long scraggly hair, shiny pate and glasses, he looks just like Ben Franklin with a rockin’ bod! Ooh, nasty, I’d say.
Jerry, Mayo Clinic, hahaha! Good one.
Weelbur climbs a palm tree.
He falls from it, on his head.
Readers: “Yay! He has to be dead by now!”
Comics Kondom: “Buy this print of Weelbur falling off the tree! He’s dead this time! We promise!”
Weelbur (wakes up on a Pyongyang street): “Why did I climb the tree? I shouldn’t have fallen off the wagon! Again!”
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