Day Seventy-Nine: Straw Sandals or Something Else? (Part One)

I slept soundly that night. The accursed wild boar did not return, which was a relief. Perhaps the death of that boar served as a warning to the rest of the pack. I finally enjoyed a peaceful night's rest. Upon inspecting the perimeter, I found the fence intact and the traps undisturbed.

It seemed they hadn't come near. As if mocking my words from the day before, my shoes suddenly split apart, becoming completely unwearable. I was furious, yet utterly helpless. I dared not venture out without footwear; the thought of going barefoot with sharp gravel and protruding tree roots everywhere was terrifying. A single injury could lead to infection or worse, and even a minor infection would render me immobile. I could not afford to fall, so finding a solution for footwear became my most urgent priority.

My first thought was to weave a pair of shoes out of vines. After dragging a large pile of vines down from the treehouse, I began to work. It started smoothly, and I managed to weave half of the upper, but I soon hit a wall: the upper had no compatible sole. Worse, I hadn't left an opening for my foot—how could this even be called a shoe? I discarded that half-finished mess and tried again, but failed once more. It was infuriating. The folded upper wouldn't stay together, and it fell apart at the slightest touch.

It was a failure. I had thought making such shoes would be easy, but clearly, I was wrong. In a fit of frustration, I threw the useless pile away and kicked the vines aside. Having spent so much time with nothing to show for it felt like a waste of life. "Forget it!" I snapped, grabbing a canned drink. It wasn't chilled, but it was a treasure for quenching thirst and cooling off.

"Hic!" There is nothing more satisfying than the first sip of a carbonated drink, the bubbles dancing with sweetness on the tip of my tongue. I have always felt these drinks are like an enthusiastic samba, their dance starting at my lips and ending only when they reach my stomach. If I had to describe the feeling, it would simply be "refreshing!" The second pleasure comes when the carbon dioxide, having accumulated in my stomach, finally erupts, traveling up through my digestive tract and breaking through the blockade of my throat as a burp. It leaves my bloated stomach feeling suddenly light and comfortable.

The drink was soon gone, but my mood had calmed. I decided to head to the beach. Perhaps I could scavenge a pair of shoes. Even if they were mismatched, as long as they fit, it would be far better than going barefoot. The women's boots I had found previously were far too small; I had tried many times but couldn't squeeze into them. I had considered using the leather for soles, but decided against it—the material was too delicate for this environment and wouldn't last more than a few days.

Armed with my pistol and axe, and with a fresh bottle of water in hand, I set off. Waves crashed against the shore, but after a long search, I found nothing of value. There was only rotting wood, shredded fishing nets, and piles of colorful plastic bags, all lying silently on the sand, accepting the rhythmic battering of the tide. These bags were too tattered to be of any use.

Without the shade of the forest, the beach was scorching, and the sand burned my feet, making walking difficult. Before long, I finished my water. Instinctively, I crushed the bottle and tossed it aside, only to realize my mistake two steps later. This wasn't civilized society; for a moment, I had forgotten where I was. I turned back to retrieve the bottle, but as I bent down, I paused. "Huh?" It looked about the right size. Could this work? I measured the bottle against my foot, and it was a surprisingly good fit. If this was viable, I wouldn't have to worry about materials anymore.

I hardened my heart and stomped the bottle completely flat. My heel accidentally caught the bottle neck, causing me to wince in pain, but such minor injuries were nothing. The flattened bottle had a slightly upturned base and was the perfect size. I had plenty of these bottles. If this plan succeeded, my footwear problem would be solved. I lost all interest in searching the beach further and headed back toward the treehouse, the empty can in my hand.

On the way back, I encountered a small creature covered in armor-like scales. It burst out of the coastal woods and startled me, and for a second, I thought it was attacking. After it had scurried a short distance, it seemed to notice me standing there, jumped in fright, and scrambled back into the trees.

"Pfft!" Seeing it charge with such intensity, I had thought it was some formidable beast or perhaps a creature like Lightning looking to confront me. It turned out I had overthought it; the timid thing had simply taken a wrong turn.

I hummed a tune and sipped on a fresh coconut all the way back to the treehouse. I began my shoe experiment immediately, using a twig to measure and record the length, width, and thickness of my feet—essential data for the next step.

I took out my Swiss Army knife, used the blade to cut several cross-shaped slits, and then used the corkscrew to bore six symmetrical holes—three on each side. I threaded a thin, dry vine through the holes. It was as simple as that; the plastic bottle shoes were complete. I couldn't wait to put them on, and once they were secured to my feet with the vines, I took a few steps. They felt remarkably suitable, though I realized they might be slippery on moss or mud.

Of course, they weren't as comfortable as proper shoes, but compared to going barefoot, they were a godsend. At the very least, they would protect me from being pierced by things hidden in the undergrowth. However, as I wore them longer, the drawbacks began to emerge. Soon, a more serious problem arose.