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“I see a little boat, I think,” Bailey says. “Do you see it?”
I peer into the murky water and finally make out the shadow of a tiny boat, much smaller than the one we came in on, easing toward the shore. Lights wink in and out as it moves through the waves.
Bailey stands on tiptoe as if that will help her see better. “I guess they’re just scouting, because that’s an awful small boat to get us.”
It isn’t safe for us to approach the broken dock in the half-dark, so we wait on the shore. The lights on the boat grow brighter as it nears the beach, and I make out the forms of two people on board.
“Still no way to know who they are,” Bailey says.
“It will be crew. Nobody from the company.”
She glances behind us.
I know exactly what she’s thinking. Our idyllic solitude has come to an end.
The sun continues to rise, giving enough light that we can make out a cap on one of the two heads.
Bailey squints out over the water. “I’m pretty sure that’s the driver who brought us out on the small boat. I sat next to him.”
She might be right, although I don’t remember the man clearly. “You ready to go back to the real world?”
She sighs. “I guess we don’t have a choice.”
The distance is greater than it appears, and eventually we sit in the sand to wait for them to arrive. The sun rises quickly, and it becomes easy to make out both the cruise ship and the small boat slowly motoring toward us in the waves.
“At least they aren’t having to use oars,” Bailey says.
“It’s a small vessel for that distance. They have to be fighting the waves.”
“Actually, we will fight them to get back out. The waves go toward the shore.”
I chuckle. Bailey always has to be right.
She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Sorry. Force of habit. Correcting you was one of my favorite pastimes.”
“I remember.”
“What are we going to do from here?” she asks.
“Take it one step at a time, I guess.”
When the boat is within shouting distance, we both stand up again. The driver in front waves at us. He’s short and stocky, and Bailey is right. He’s the same driver who brought us to the island as a group.
A tall, lean man in back adjusts the motor so the propellers are level with the stern as they get into the shallows.
We wade out to meet them.
The man in the cap speaks first. “Rhett Armstrong? Bailey Johansson?” He grins at Bailey. “I remember you.”
“I might be more trouble than I’m worth,” she says.
“Could be,” he says with a grin.
“Is that our ship?” I ask.
“It is. We circled back.” The two men drag the boat up onto the beach as we follow along.
The man in the cap turns to look us over. “I’m Chief Officer Mory. You both seem well. Are you sick? Dehydrated? It’s been two days.”
