Marooned

They said the Caribbean was paradise. Pedro Serrano had believed that once, back when the sea breeze meant freedom and not dread. But now, as he stood alone on a strip of sand no larger than a football field, with the blazing sun above and no sign of life around, paradise was a cruel joke.

It had started like any other voyage. A Spanish vessel, bound for trade, skimming across the warm waters of the Caribbean in the mid-16th century. Serrano, a sailor of modest rank, had weathered storms before. But nothing like this. The squall had come fast and furious, ripping the sails to ribbons and smashing the hull against unseen reefs. He didn’t remember how he made it to the sandbar, only that when he awoke, he was alone.

And there was nothing. No fresh water. No vegetation. Just sand, salt, and sun. Serrano fashioned shelter from what little wreckage washed ashore. He scavenged, desperate. Sea turtles became his lifeline: he drank rainwater collected in their empty shells and survived on raw shellfish and whatever the tide dragged in. Every dawn brought new heat. Every night, cold so sharp it made him shiver uncontrollably, teeth clacking like castanets.

The days blurred. The months passed. He stopped counting.

Years later, Serrano spotted a shape stumbling along the sand. Another man. Another shipwreck, tossed here by fate. But neither cheered at the sight of the other. Instead, terror flashed in their eyes. Each thought he was looking at the Devil. Their skin had burned to leather. Their hair and beards tangled and wild. They snarled like feral dogs, shouting blasphemies and curses.

They fought. Bit, clawed, bled. It was only when they heard each other cry out in Latin prayers that the spell broke.

They wept.

Together, they rebuilt the camp. They caught fish, improved their shelter, and rationed their meager resources. But even companionship couldn’t erase the gnawing fear that no one was coming. The sandbar was not on any chart. There was no beacon, no flare. Only time, slow and cruel.

Then, after nearly seven years, sails appeared on the horizon. They screamed. Waved fire. The ship saw them. A miracle. Salvation.

Back in Spain, Serrano was greeted not with honor but with suspicion. Who survives that long in such hell? They questioned his tale, doubted his endurance. The sea, after all, had swallowed greater men whole. Only by pleading directly to the king himself did Serrano receive his long-denied pay. Even survival, it seemed, required advocacy.

Serrano’s story isn’t just one of physical endurance—it’s a testament to what it takes to outlast the worst conditions imaginable. And that lesson rings especially true when we talk about financial markets.

There are moments when the market feels like that barren sandbar. When your portfolio seems stranded, sun-scorched, and without hope. The waves of volatility come crashing in, and all your usual strategies are smashed against invisible reefs. Maybe it’s a recession. Maybe it's inflation. Maybe it’s just an unnervingly quiet stretch with no obvious end in sight.

In those moments, panic is a natural response. Like Serrano mistaking another castaway for the Devil, fear distorts reason. But survival—true financial survival—often comes down to resourcefulness, patience, and belief that rescue will come. Markets recover. Conditions improve. But only for those who don't give up on their process. Who adapt, reassess, and conserve where necessary.

Serrano didn’t have control over the storm, the sea, or the timing of his rescue. But he endured. And when he finally stood before the crown, he had something few others did: a story of survival that couldn't be denied.

The same can be true for investors who stay the course. Weather the storm. Trust the tide will turn. Because eventually, it always does.