I was on top of a rectangular block of island, with sides that went straight down, with a group of people. They were apparently playing games. One was an accident-prone coworker, who kept leaning over the straight drops to call out or do something. I looked down at what she must have seen and realized how dangerous it was. Everything was covered with grass.

When the group left, each person used two poles to get down the vertical sides. I could not or would not do this. I found myself on a red, rusty, rickety, blocky boat with two older men in wheelchairs. I didn’t notice how I’d gotten there; I assumed a helicopter had plucked me off the island, but why didn’t it take me the rest of the way back (to where)?

The boat went down a vegetation-choked channel around the island to the other side, almost like it was a peninsula. For some reason, the other side was unexpected to the boat’s crew and came to an abrupt end. One man started turning the wheel furiously for reasons I didn’t understand. The wheel was horribly broken at the ends. Another man, the captain, came and pulled on what I assumed was the “brake.”

Groups of giant men appeared in the water, blocking the channel and throwing rocks and even boulders at the boat. They seemed to fall over as we approached; perhaps they were fighting among themselves — it was hard to tell. They never managed to hit the boat, but we couldn’t know that.

Finally, the last group toppled over, but we saw the wall that was the end of the channel. We were trapped, with nowhere to go. Would the giant men come toward us? I suddenly felt alone.