This castaway gig was pretty cool. We were by ourselves in the wilderness, and had a mission: To get ourselves and our stuff out under our own power through unpredictable and unknown terrain. True adventure never really starts until you mess up really badly. We fulfilled that criterion. After shuffling the gear about ten minutes down the beach, we set up our tent on top of a sand dune. It was getting dark, and a thin band of orange was the only light remaining on the horizon. On one side of our perch, we peered down into a firefly-lit, swampy jungle; on the other, we could see and hear the vastness and power of the surf that had crushed us. Our stove was soaked, but I dried it out and managed to get it going. It clogged up after a few minutes, so I took it apart to clean it. With almost everything still wet, and camping on a sand dune, I clogged the stove even more. The more I fiddled, the worse it got. Spam time, once more! After being gnawed on by no-see-ums during dinner, we went to bed tired, damp and full of spiced ham, knowing that we had a big day ahead of us.

The next day was humid and, fortunately, overcast, with intermittent monsoon rains rolling in off the ocean to cool us. I shuttled 60- to 100-pound loads for ten minutes at a time, eastward down the beach. I'd then run back for the second load and haul it to where the first one was. I wore sandals, while Dave trudged at his own pace, barefoot. Dave likes the feel of sand on his bare feet and, despite my warning, thought he'd fare fine, even with the extra weight. "Uh, Dave, we've got a long way to go. You sure you want to go barefoot?" "I always walk barefoot in the sand. It feels good. Just like a foot massage." "Suit yourself." We needed to cover 15 kilometres along Cibandowah Beach before we entered the jungle. Once in the bush, we needed to find a trail that I recalled from the ranger map that led north to Selamat Datang Bay, where we had started. Once at the bay, we would have to make our way up its eastern shore toward Sumur until we reached the village of Tamanjaya, where the first road out was. I cruised along in a Zen-like state, funneled forward along the beach by the ocean on my right side and the waving trees and vegetation of the jungle on my left. I thought of nothing much in particular except pushing forward. Black rain clouds rose off the ocean and soaked us, followed by a brief blaze of equatorial sun that dried us off. We dodged between driftwood, discarded sandals, fishing nets, seaweed, shampoo bottles and anything else the sea had carried from far-off lands and deposited on the fine white sands of Ujung Kulon. I sang Village People and Abba songs to help keep myself occupied. We traveled seven kilometres in four hours, until we finally approached the Cikelesik River.

What we saw gave us pause: The river flowing out of the jungle was broad - about 20 metres wide, and the incoming tide rushed up the river like a rip. We had no choice. We forded the armpit-deep river with our heavy loads, digging our feet sideways into the sandy bottom to keep from being knocked over by the relentless force of the sea. My sandals sank deep into the sand as I strained to keep moving forward with my pack. After a prolonged struggle against the force of the flow, I finally emerged on the other side. As I turned around to check on Dave's progress.....