Pilgrimage to Plymouth Rock: A Mayflower Voyage

Over sixty days have passed since I left with the others from my homeland on the Mayflower, sailing along the Atlantic passageway in search of new beginnings. The journey at sea was treacherous, but not deathly, though our morale was quite shaken from the storms. The ship’s main hull was breached, but thankfully the ship remained intact for the rest of the course with just a few temporary repairs. Originally, we were headed to dock in Virginia with the other settlers, but the gales and squalls of the sea have steered our path elsewhere north amidst the land. Just shortly after we landed shore, a team was dispatched to explore where they named the area Plymouth Rock, just west of Cape Cod Bay. And now, the others and I have stepped foot on a sandy beach in this part of the New World, ready to form a fresh start.
With the onset of the winter season approaching, a series of inventory checks were taken on the provisions we had packed along our voyage, as well as the first settlements were under construction the next day. Notably enough, we were severely limited in terms of food, so strict rules of rationing were enforced until next spring,

which included making contributions to the development of the colony in order to get it. Nevertheless, for the first half of my day, I assisted in building the housing for the colony. However, being inexperienced in construction as I am, the other builders performed the most daunting tasks while I stuck around to fill in the remaining nails and screws. Despite my struggles, I continued to work in order to receive my daily portion of the rations. When I was met with the time for leisure, I roamed around the forests and grasslands, admiring their beauty. There was something particularly noting about the scenery as I lay on the luscious green grass, watching and listening. This land that was untouched by civilization seemed to have a repeating, synchronizing process that runs entirely on its own. Every single aspect of nature is orchestrated very much like a symphony, creating an art of masterpiece for every certain period of time. The rustling of leaves from the breeze, the birds tweeting in the trees, insects chirping on the ground, the water droplets falling into a small pond, and even my breathing all intricately weaved together to serve as music to my ears.
The winter that visited shortly after was much harsher than what everyone expected. Surely enough, the rations could not keep up with its demand, and eventually ran out halfway through the freezing season. Luckily, I have always stashed extra provisions from my daily rations to prepare for situations just like these, and I shared whenever I could with those who needed it the most. However, even my efforts proved futile, and I began to notice the colonists slowly fall ill one by one. It was a truly frightening experience, not only for me, but for them as well. The typical result of death would be by sickness, and with each passing day a colonist would never know when it was his time to move on to a better place. The unforgiving winter was simply there to speed up that process. If God continues to be with him, he would only remain alive at the end of the day just to re-live it again tomorrow.
Regardless of the winter taking its toll over the colony, live began to improve when the spring season arrived.

We were visited by the natives of the land, whom had taught us the most vital skills pertinent to our survival. One of the natives, who went by the name of Squanto, served as an interpreter to translate messages from our language to theirs and back. An interesting concept that we learned from him was three-sister farming, a technique which involved the planting of corn, beans, and squash all in close proximity. He had also shown us the art of fishing out in the lakes and rivers dispersed along the surroundings of the colony. Such experience was invaluable, and cherished as a tradition in response to our time of need thanks to the natives. Soon enough, our societies converged into one, and our diverse culture

flourished.
There was a surplus of food from large crop harvests, in which we and the natives have all come together to share and celebrate living in the colony. Furthermore, several livestock and other domesticated animals were given to us as gifts, and I received a few to care for. In exchange, I offered to teach them how to read and write in the English language. The natives gladly accepted, and I walked into their village once a day every week to assist them in learning the basic concepts of English and analyze its literary works prominently famous back in Britain. Every time I visit, they took great strides in attempting to apply what they have learned so far into their own concepts of daily life.
The colony in which I was grateful to live on had prospered for the next fifty or so years as far as I had known in my current old age. Other settlers had arrived from England to start their own colonies that neighbored next to us. I may or may not live long enough to see it, but all of these colonies will eventually come together to form their own nation, in which its foundation is based upon the principles of liberty and freedom.