His name was Alexander Selkirk, a Scottish sailor with a temper and a premonition.
In 1704, aboard a privateer ship near the Juan Fernández Islands, 400 miles off Chile, Selkirk had a violent dispute with his captain. The vessel was leaky, he argued, unseaworthy. In a moment of rage and fear, he demanded to be put ashore on a nearby uninhabited island, preferring isolation to a sinking ship.
The captain obliged.
Then Selkirk watched his ship sail away, taking his old life with it.
He had a musket, gunpowder, a knife, some tools, his clothes, and a Bible. At first, he waited on the beach, reading scripture, expecting rescue within days. Days became months. Months became years.
He adapted. Rats plagued him at night, so he domesticated feral cats to keep guard. Goats, left by Spanish ships, provided meat and later skins for clothing. He learned to make fire by rubbing wood together. He kept a signal fire burning constantly on a hillside, a desperate beacon for passing ships.
Twice, Spanish vessels landed. Twice, Selkirk fled and hid. As a Scot and an English privateer, capture meant death or slavery.
And then something strange happened. The solitude began to feel less like punishment and more like peace. Years passed. He stopped counting.
In 1709, an English ship, the Duke, spotted his signal fire. The landing party found a "wildman" in goatskins, barely recognizable as human. Among them was William Dampier, the same pilot Selkirk had originally sailed with, who vouched for his identity.
After four years and four months, Alexander Selkirk returned to civilization.
But civilization didn't fit anymore. He later said it "could not, with all its enjoyments, restore me to the tranquillity of my solitude." The noise, the crowds, the complexity - it all felt wrong.
Within a few years, he returned to sea. In 1721, he died of yellow fever off the coast of Africa.
The ironic twist? His original ship, the one he'd argued was unseaworthy, had indeed sunk near Peru. Most of its crew drowned or were captured. His decision to leave saved his life - but cost him his place in the world he returned to.
Today, one of the islands where he was stranded bears his name. The real Robinson Crusoe never needed Friday. He had goats, cats, and the terrifying, beautiful silence of being utterly, completely alone.
And in the end, he missed it more than anything.