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BAILEY
By the end of day two on the island, we have a decent domestic situation.
Rhett has amassed a pile of limbs to keep the fire going. I’ve figured out a way to daisy chain the life jackets together to create a surprisingly sturdy mattress for inside the shed.
We are definitely tired of sand and the salty grit that comes from washing off in the ocean.
The water was perfectly drinkable, but we spent some time boiling and cooling it anyway, refilling the plastic bags that once held ice.
And our margaritas aren’t slushy or even on the rocks anymore, but by dinner, we have made due with a combination of the mix packet, water, and pickle juice.
As the sun sets with no sign of a rescue today, all the oysters gone, Rhett sits by the fire with a hammer, a screwdriver, and two coconuts we found at the base of the trees when we took a short walk inside the tree line.
“Look at us, being hunter-gatherers,” I tell him as he angles the screwdriver on the edge of the outer shell and picks up the hammer.
“Don’t congratulate me yet. This husk looks pretty impenetrable.”
I sip a margarita from a paper cup while he practices his swing. Now that the sun is down, his shirt is off and I very much enjoy the play of the firelight on his chest and arms as he prepares to smash into the coconut.
“Here goes nothing.” He lifts the hammer and brings it down hard on the end of the screwdriver.
The coconut shoots out from under it and rolls across the sand.
“Coconut 1, Rhett 0,” I say.
He shakes his head. “This is probably a lost cause.”
“No saw or anything?”
“Nope. The tools were focused on repairing the equipment.”
“Hmmm.” I take another sip. The wind rushes through the palm trees, making a rustling sound in the fronds that has already become familiar. The roar of the waves is ever-present.
I miss having a normal shower. Soap. Doom-scrolling social media rants, one of my guilty pleasures.
But it’s nice here, at least so far. I’m hungry, mainly because I couldn’t stomach another pickle today. But the margaritas take the edge off.
Rhett scoops up the coconut for another go at it.
This time when the husk shoots across the sand, bouncing off a kayak, I can’t help but laugh. “Should I try?”
He holds out the hammer. “Absolutely.”
I wonder how I can improve upon his technique. I could ask him to hold the coconut, but accidentally smashing his finger would impact my enjoyment of the evening later. And a wild swing could cause a concussion.
But I do have an idea.
I dig a hole in the sand and place the coconut down in it. I pack it tight so that there isn’t any space for the coconut to move.
I run my hand across the hairy surface, looking for any weak spots. I feel a small dent.
I fit the flat end of the screwdriver into that dent and accept the hammer from Rhett.
“What do I get if I’m the one to defeat the coconut?” I ask.
“You mean other than coconut in your margarita?”
“Mmmm hmmm.”
