Another body, and ... amusement?

You ran along the beach with boyish enthusiasm trying not to think about what you would have done if something had happened to your only companion. When you reach the sweat-covered woman you have to resist the temptation to pick her up and swing her in a great hug. The grim look in her face makes it clear that she would not appreciate the sudden display of affection. The reason for her dour demeanor is likely the half-eaten body of the other paying passenger, the man whose Rolex you found. Both of the man's legs are missing as well as his left forearm. Damage like that could only be caused by sharks, and it makes you wonder at how blithely you had swum out to the Lucky Ducky.

"Damn, it's good to see you John." Amala slips the shoulder straps from her shoulders and lets them fall to the sand. "More than once I was tempted to roll 'Mr. Fats' here back into the surf and let the sharks finish the job." Without a word you pull the shoulder straps over your shoulders. The bands had been neatly woven together from palm fronds and fastened to the driftwood sled with more twisted cordage.

"Was there any sign of the others. Ma'am?" You ask as an image of the shy Mormon missionary half eaten and rolling in the surf makes you want to hurl, and you have to take a couple deep breaths to stop the sudden vertigo.

"No, how about you, was there anyone on the Duck?" She accepts your silence as an answer and starts toward your camp. As much as you try to do the right thing you can't help but stare at the perfectly formed ass swaying gracefully before you as you drag the sled. You make the last hundred yards or so back to where you set up the tent in silence, huffing and puffing by the time you got to the other graves and wonder how someone Amala's size could have dragged this sled for any distance at all.

The first thing Amala does is scoop water from the cooler: first drinking deeply and then splashing it over her face until the rivulets run down her neck and soak the top she is wearing making the outline of her breasts even clearer in the golden light from the setting sun. It is hard to take your eyes off of her, you've never seen anyone as beautiful and poised even under these awful circumstances. Perhaps misinterpreting your stare Amala gives you some welcome news.

"Water's not going to be a problem after all, John. I found a spring on the windward side of the island with a deep pool and even a small waterfall." She looks over at the tent and you see what looks like a sad smile cross her weary face as she shakes her head. "I see you've been busy. What else did you find?" You show her the trove of treasures and Amala seems pleased by how much you were able to save from the wreck, especially the hand ax and coils of rope.

"I guess it was too much to hope that you'd find the medical kit or any of my clothes." You look at the torn top and her jeans and realize that none of your clothes were among the flotsams. "Well, this tent might be nice for shade, but we can't sleep here on the beach. The bugs will eat us alive once the sun sets." She looks around with a practiced eye and nods silently as she comes to a decision.

"OK, John, we don't have much time. Get Mr. Fats there as deep as you can by the other two graves, I'll see about a fire and someplace where we can sleep."

"I couldn't find the galley lighter." You let her know, but Amala just shrugs and motions you back to the graves. "Get going, If that body sits in the heat any longer it's going to really start stinking." As you dig into the sand you watch Amala pull down your little tent and carry it about twenty yards further down the tree line. I guess she wasn't impressed with my handiwork. You are a little pissed that all the work you put into the tent is gone in two minutes, especially as you see her stretch out the same triangular sail horizontally between three trees. You liked your cozy tent much more than her solution. By the time you have a deep enough hole to roll the body into it is almost completely dark and you see the flicker of small flames where the captain's wife has been setting up camp. How in the Hell did she get a fire started?

Placing a marker like the other two at the head of the grave you consider hanging the man's gold watch form the fork in the driftwood but decide that even on this timeless island that something like this is too useful. If nothing else if some local fishermen find you, this expensive Rolex should pay for a safe passage to Fiji.

Back at the camp is a small pot of stew and the two of you eat in silence. For a while longer you sit side-by-side as the fire sends sparks into the night sky. You want to tell Amala how sorry you were about her husband, how grateful you are that she is on the island with you, but there is something about her that keeps you silent.

It is Amala who decides when the intimate moment is over.

"Time for bed John," Amala says when the last of the stew is finished, she glances back to where the jib is strung between the palms. "I rigged up a hammock to keep us up off the sand; the breeze will keep at least some of the bugs away." You watch as the woman gracefully pulls herself up onto the tightly strung sail, it takes you a little longer to join her and when you do it becomes clear that no matter how hard you try, the nature of the hammock is going to push your two bodies together. It is both a fantasy and a nightmare rolled into one.

Did Amala understand what her warm body was doing to your hyperactive male libido? Did she know that you were going to get a hard-on within minutes of lying by her side? Did she even care?