Read this:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Essex_(...)
There are also two written accounts of the story: one from the first mate, and one by a cabin boy. ¡I know-it almost sounds like 𝑇𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝐼𝑠𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑 or something, right? Except that this happened 30 years before Robert Louis Stevenson was even born. Well, I haven't read either of the first-hand versions yet, but I fully intend to.
Without having done so, I can still say that one thing's for sure: a little splash in our culture sure does build as its wave moves forward through time. What started as one unbelievable event has reverberated through retelling to become all manner of tales of extremity and deprivation. Butterfly effect and so on. From this one occurrence, after a few generations, you could have all sorts of miracles, eh? Talking snakes, world-floods, parting seas, saviors-who knows what we'd cook up. Well, that's why my people have a traditional saying: 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑠 𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛. The irony is that no matter how extreme the stories end up becoming over iterations, the actual account still ends up being the one that makes you drop the book on your lap, throw your head back looking up, and sigh.
The other adaptations? Well, they just end up being one more bland, tacky, celebrity-strewn superhero movie, macguffin chase, hyper-diverse cast, good vs evil paradigm and all. Doesn't quite have the existential terror of being forced to eat one of your compatriots under exposure, does it? What pressing mass of tiny discomforts will eat a man to eventual death; the only evil becomes life's absence. Out in the real sea, here be dragons. Arrrgh.
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