Henry David Thoreau said, “Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.”

Welcome to The Soul Podcast. I’m Stacey Wheeler.

Today I want to tell you a story about being lost. And about being found. And as the tale unfolds, perhaps you'll glimpse reflections of a journey that whispers to us all.

It was a misty September day in 1704, when a longboat scraped onto the shore of a remote island in the Pacific Ocean. A man stepped out, his face etched with defiance and a flicker of fear. He carried a musket, some gunpowder, a knife, a few tools, a bit of tobacco, and a Bible. Behind him, the ship he’d called home for months began to sail away, its sails catching the wind like indifferent ghosts. He watched it fade into the horizon, and in that moment, Alexander Selkirk was utterly alone.

Born in 1676 in the coastal village of Lower Largo, Scotland, Selkirk was the seventh son of a shoemaker. From his earliest days, he was restless, drawn to the sea’s vast mystery. By his teens, he’d clashed with authority, his fiery temper earning him church discipline. Yet that same strong will would one day sustain him. He took to the waves young, sailing merchant ships, learning navigation, discipline, and the quiet art of holding to one’s values amid the chaos of the ocean.

His path led him to privateering during the War of the Spanish Succession—licensed raids on enemy vessels under the British crown. Selkirk rose quickly, becoming a skilled sailing master, respected for his keen eye and unyielding resolve. In 1703, he joined an expedition under Captain William Dampier aboard the Cinque Ports, a leaky galley captained by the hot-headed Thomas Stradling. Their aim: plunder Spanish ships along South America’s coast, chasing glory and gold through storms and skirmishes where every decision could mean life or death.

As they rounded the treacherous horn into the Pacific, the voyage soured. Gales battered the ships, provisions ran low, and scurvy ravaged the crew—a silent killer born from the absence of fresh fruits and vegetables, though no one yet understood why. Selkirk saw the signs: the hull rotting, seams leaking, the vessel unfit for the open sea. He argued fiercely with Stradling, warning that to continue was to court doom. But the captain’s pride prevailed, and the divide grew.

Off the Juan Fernández archipelago, 416 miles west of Chile, Selkirk reached his limit. The island of Más a Tierra rose before them—a volcanic outcrop, 15 miles long and 3 miles wide, cloaked in mist, jagged cliffs, and dense forests teeming with wild goats. After heated words, Stradling offered to set him ashore if he was so dissatisfied. Selkirk, trusting his instincts over the captain’s folly, accepted. He was rowed to the beach, left with his meager supplies. As the ship departed, a wave of regret washed over him. He ran along the shore, shouting for them to return, but the sails vanished. He was marooned, over 400 miles from any settlement, on a speck of land that seemed a death sentence.

In that isolation, the external world fell away, and the true journey began—the one within. The island’s bounty awaited the resourceful: goats for hunting, fish from the sea, wild turnips, cabbage palms, and berries to unknowingly ward off scurvy. He gathered rainwater in hollowed logs, built huts from branches and grass—one by the beach, another higher up for watchfulness. He tamed feral cats to fend off swarming rats at night, fashioned clothes from goat skins using nails from driftwood as needles, and let his feet harden to run barefoot over rocks.

Yet survival was not merely of the body. The silence amplified his inner world; loneliness gnawed like the wind. Despair threatened to overwhelm him at first. But he turned to ritual: dawn hunts, midday repairs, evenings spent reading his Bible aloud, reciting psalms to stave off madness. Prayer and reflection became his anchors, connecting him to a higher purpose beyond the visible horizon. In the quiet, he discovered that his circumstances were but the stage; the real odyssey was in his spirit. He organized his days with purpose—building, hunting, observing—creating structure that steadied his mind. As modern insights echo, meaning arises from such intention, reducing anxiety and fostering resilience. Without the noise of the world, he found companionship in the winds, the seals barking on the rocks, the stars wheeling overhead. His body grew strong, but his soul expanded, embracing the present flow, finding peace in self-reliance and harmony with nature.

Time blurred through seasons of rain, earthquakes, and a near-fatal fall from a cliff. He danced with goats for joy, sang hymns to the sky, invented games to pass the hours. Solitude, once a tormentor, became a teacher, revealing the depths of his own strength.

In February 1709, after more than four years, sails appeared on the horizon—the Duke and Duchess, under Captain Woodes Rogers. Smoke signals drew them in; rescuers found a wild man in hides, his speech halting from disuse. They offered rescue, but Selkirk hesitated. Aboard was his old captain, Stradling, now a prisoner—his ship had indeed sunk, vindicating Selkirk’s choice. Memories of betrayal stirred; four years had brought him contentment in autonomy and inner peace. Why return to a world of conflict? But tales of adventure and assurances of Rogers’ fair command persuaded him. He boarded with his tools and treasures, soon proving his worth as sailing master, capturing a galleon and sharing in fortunes.

Back in civilization by 1711, his story spread through taverns, pamphlets, and Rogers’ accounts. In 1719, Daniel Defoe drew from it to craft Robinson Crusoe, though fictionalized. The island was renamed Robinson Crusoe Island; another nearby honored as Alejandro Selkirk. He sailed again, amassed wealth, briefly returned to Scotland, but the sea called him back. In 1721, at age 45, Alexander Selkirk died of illness aboard ship.

Yet his legacy endures—not just in adventure tales, but as a quiet testament to the inner voyage. His external trials were stark, a forge of isolation and peril, but his true survival bloomed from within: trusting intuition, finding meaning in reflection, emerging transformed. We all face this same journey each day, though in less dramatic circumstances. Adrift on our own islands of self, amid the storms of life, we navigate with inner strength. Even surrounded by others, we are alone in our souls, invited to listen, to embrace the quiet, and to discover that peace and resilience lie not in the world outside, but in the vast landscape within. And so, I wonder: In the quiet corners of your own day, on that inner island that only you inhabit, have you paused lately to seek the peace that waits there? What might you discover if you turned inward, just for a moment, and let the silence speak?

Henry David Thoreau said, “Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.”

In the silence of our own moments, may we find the courage to truly see.