Getting his bearings was his immediate priority. It took three tries to get to his wobbly feet, but once he was upright he felt pretty steady on his pins. He waded back into the receding tide, a hundred yards out, where the boat wreckage lay half-submerged in the shallows of a reef. He prayed he would be able to salvage some tools, food, or weapons for safekeeping for his foreseeable time on this island -- if it truly was an island.
The boat was a tangled deathtrap, void of all other crew. Even worse, upon closer inspection, it was missing other essentials as well. Namely the tools, food, and weapons which had drawn him back to the boat in the first place.
Looking back toward the shore, it seemed as if the beach stretched on in both directions forever; it looked more like a coastline than an island.
That would be good. He preferred to be near civilization, if he had to be shipwrecked at all. But he had to be sure. There was a pretty significant rocky bluff which appeared to start about a mile into the thick tree line. That would give him the view he needed to make an informed decision on his next course of action, based on his position. The only problem with that idea was the condition of his body. Would he be able to climb that hill given the his body's shabby condition? He looked to the sky; the sun was directly overhead, so he judged the time to be roughly midday. Would he be able to make his way through the forest and up the hill before he lost daylight? Maybe the prudent course of action would be to find shelter.
Water would also be of utmost importance. He certainly couldn't drink sea water, and his survival would be brief unless he found some water source.
And there was also the matter of those strange tracks in the sand. What should he do about those? Had something come out of the forest to investigate his unconscious body? Or had there been others on board his boat when it grounded ashore who had gone into the trees?
He frowned and scratched his stubbly chin. Something else to think about.