Misappropriated letters of remorse and regret.
My message in the bottle I dropped into the sea, was ripped up in a drag net along with a tonne of ocean bed fauna wriggling and smashed, flapping for life. My letter, I wrote with my own blood on silver birch bark, was picked up by a fisherman a long time at sea, having seen many bottles containing many messages he tossed it back over board, neither willing nor presently disposed to come to my rescue. Transatlantic drift, the gulf stream, pushed and bobbed along by the warm Mistral wind, my bottle eventually beached, where it was picked up for a second time by a charitable adventurer with time on his hands. Setting forth immediately into the wide grey horizon. Time passes slowly on the waves, a full beard of growth later he found the fisherman, the owner of the first fishy set of fingers to examine my bottle, and attempted a gutsy rescue from the bloody decks of his own boat. Having none of it the Ahab of the common cod set right the kindly but now doubtful adventurer.