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I stare up at the palm trees overhead. I’m used to the idea of coconuts, and I’ve seen brown ones in stores. They are infamously difficult to open.
But the ones above aren’t brown at all. They have a smooth, green exterior. Does this mean they aren’t ripe?
Nothing I learned in Boy Scouts taught me about island survival, that’s for sure.
I’m not sure we could even get to them. Do they fall, or do they have to be harvested? I curse my reliance on search engines. There is no way to find out anything.
The instinct to figure things out, to plan for the worst-case scenario, is urgent.
I have Bailey to think about, too.
At least we have shelter. A fire. Collected rainwater. Our only real concern soon will be food.
I’m grateful for the pickles. They’re salt and electrolytes and a way to stave off hunger pains all in one. We don’t have to keep them cold.
We’ll need to gather more firewood. Assess the quantity and quality of the water. Come up with a better sleeping arrangement. Maybe we can unstuff the life jackets. We’re going to grow weary of feeling gritty.
I can repair a couple of loungers. Get us off the sand.
This is such a far cry from my previous goals for the cruise. The dailies. Avoiding employees. Maintaining my position of authority.
Now, it’s just me. Bailey. Basic human needs.
Her leg slides off mine, falling onto the sandy towel. She startles, then lifts her head.
I wait for her to look around and orient herself.
She rubs an eye. “Whoa. I had a wicked dream I survived a storm on a deserted island, then had wild sex with my boss.”
“Do you always wake up witty?”
“Maxwell thinks so.”
“Lucky Maxwell.” I have to shake my head at myself and the cat mistake. So much lost time.
She shifts to my side and slowly sits up. “I see two problems with your naked day idea. Three, actually.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m up to four. One: sunburn. Two: sand. Three: our imminent rescue.” She peers into the sky. “You think they can satellite feed us to see if we’re here?”
“If so, we’ve given them quite the show.”
“Yikes.” She glances around and picks up her bathing suit.
“And what is four?”
“We won’t stop having sex. Like at all.” She glances pointedly at my groin, which is stirring as I watch her work the clasp of the bikini bottom.
“I don’t see number four as a problem.”
She grins. “Okay, maybe not. But surely we have things to do. Firewood. Water.”
Funny how alike we are. “I guess we should draw up an itinerary.”
“I’ll type it right up. Hopefully, printer two isn’t being cranky today.”
Now we’re both smiling like it’s our best day ever, and maybe it is.
