Amala, the Captain's beautiful wife

Author's note: Hi Lily, please feel free to add to this thread. I really like Random's storyline, but I thought I'd try something different. As much as I like the Rugged Male and naïve virgin stranded together (it is probably what I would have chosen) I figured I'd flip the script a little, and make Amala more experienced both in survival and sex and have the main character be the the one who needs a little guidance.

You recognize the dark-haired woman immediately. How could you not? The captain's wife was a reoccurring temptation in your dreams and more than once as you lay on his bunk you fantasized about her lush curves and brilliant smile. To be fair, you are not the only one bewitched by the Indian woman so much younger than her husband. More than once you had to politely escort the wealthy gentlemen who booked passage on the Lucky Ducky away from where she would sit and back to their cabins. Most of these men seemed to think that because of her exotic looks, big breasts and quiet nature that this young beauty was fair game. There was even a good deal of speculation among the crew, most notably from the ship's brooding navigator, about how your aging Captain could possibly have the energy to keep someone as ripe and young as her satisfied. You remember feeling distinctly uneasy as the man coarsely described what he would do with the 'Hindi Bitch' if he could figure out a way to get her alone.

The Captain's wife waves from the tree-line and you are more than happy to jog over the hot white sand to join her in the shade of a trio of towering coconut palms. In spite of her torn dress and salt and sand flecked hair she looks as vibrant as ever and you wonder how anyone this beautiful could have ever ended up married to old Captain Wilson.

Before you get a chance to say anything you see two mounds of sand with markers on them it is clear that not everyone aboard the Lucky Ducky had made it. From the grave closest to you you see the Captain's hat hanging from the marker and realize that this woman must have dug her own husband's grave with her bare hands while you were passed out on the beach.

"I'm so sorry, Ma'am." Her dark eyes sweep over your sturdy frame as if she is seeing you for the very first time.

"Thank-you, John." Her voice is soft and smooth with just a hint of the subcontinent's accent that she tries hard to hide. "Did you see anyone else? Alive, or ... bodies?" When you shake your head silently she puts her hand on your shoulder. "I guess it's just you and me then. I'll have to promote you from ship's boy to able-bodied seaman. Anyone who could survive that storm deserves to be recognized." You wonder about the other crewmembers and passengers. Most of the older passengers probably wouldn't have lasted even a few minutes in the rough sea, but the crewmen were fit and healthy and the redheaded Missionary from the States seemed too young and sweet to vanish into the deep before her life even started.

"Thank-you Ma'am, or should I call you Captain?" For a moment her stern appraisal softens, "You can call me Amala, John, 'Ma'am' makes me sound like I'm fifty years old." The moment of softness is gone as quickly as it appeared, and she points out to the surf. "Get as much of that flotsam as you can salvage. Start with the suitcases and chests, but don't stop until you've dragged everything you can up past the high-tide line." With a quick nod you turn back to the rolling surf, when she stops you again with a sharp command.

"Wait!" When you turn back to her, she hands you a coconut that has been punctured at the top. "Drink this. The last thing I need is to have you drop over from dehydration." The coconut water tastes better that a mug of cold beer and you can feel the strength return to your limbs.

"I'm going to scout out the island." Amala tells you as she picks up a piece of smooth straight piece of driftwood almost as tall as her, "If we can't find a source of water, we're both going to wish we had drowned with the rest of them.