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| Artwork by Kit Moss. |
EXCERPT
I more than half expected him to rip off his clothes as soon as we reached open water, but he only kicked off his shoes and socks. I watched him from the deck as he stood at the wheel in his white shorts and short-sleeved shirt, a white captain’s cap on his head. And he was wearing a watch.
I more than half expected him to rip off his clothes as soon as we reached open water, but he only kicked off his shoes and socks. I watched him from the deck as he stood at the wheel in his white shorts and short-sleeved shirt, a white captain’s cap on his head. And he was wearing a watch.
I had no trouble
visualizing the body underneath his clothing.
Short (five foot five at most, maybe five-six), narrow-waisted and slim
with the gentle musculature we call a “swimmer’s build”, the even tan on his
smooth, unblemished skin, his back and chest hairless, forearms and legs almost
so, and just a faint trail of fine hairs running from his navel to the sparse
curls capping a crotch he might have shaved.
“Are you sure someone
hasn’t come by and run off with the blankets and whatever else you keep there?”
“Not a chance. No one knows the island even exists except
me.”
“And now I will, too.”
“But not where it is.”
He was right. With no view of the compass I had no idea
where we were headed nor any way of taking our bearings. If I had to steer by the sun and stars I’d be
lost.
It took us nearly three
hours to reach his island. No wonder he
wanted to get such an early start! In the
beginning we passed dozens of small islands, most of them flat and apparently
uninhabited, though there may have been homes built on some of them. They were too distant for me to make out
details like that; he kept well out to open sea. As we approached the end of our trip there
was not an island in sight. I knew we
had reached the island when for the first time he headed straight toward land.
Friday Cay was as small
as any of them, perhaps two or three square miles in all, but the terrain was
hillier and more varied. We had not come
close enough to the others to tell for sure, but it may have had a more
irregular shoreline as well, which would make for better snorkeling.
We pulled around a reef
to anchor along a beachless section of the shore. As far as I could see, there was no spot
suitable for camping. “We hike to the
lean-to,” he said. “It’s not far. I built it just above a nice stretch of
beach, but I always leave my boat here.
It’s more sheltered.”
“And we’re supposed to
swim to shore holding the food over our heads to keep it dry?”
“Silly. And you think I’d swim dragging our liquor
supply in a net behind me? We paddle in
using the inflatable.”
“So you brought liquor,
did you? I expected you would. Vodka for your martinis?”
“No, rum. It fits the castaway scenario better, and
it’s a hell of a lot cheaper too. Okay,
time to get undressed. From here on no
more than flip-flops for the walk and a tee-shirt in case you need to protect
your back from the sun.”
“Mightn’t it get chilly
at night? I brought a sweatshirt.”
“Unlikely. You can bring it, but you can’t wear it. I have one in the storage bin too.”
“And what about a hat?”
“Hats are allowed.”
We loaded what we’d
need into the life raft. I asked,
“Shouldn’t we take the first-aid kit too?”
“I keep one in the
storage bin.”
We pulled the raft up
above the high-water line, put on our backpacks and headed up a steep
rise. At the top we turned to the right
and followed a natural path back down to the beach, about three-quarters of a
mile from where we’d cast anchor. I felt
not a breath of wind on the island, though it had been blowing pretty strongly
on the open sea, and if you looked back you saw the water far out was choppy.
The vegetation was
fairly thick, but not high. There were
even a few trees. I wondered if we’d be
doing some hiking around the island.
“Nothing much to see,”
he said. “If you look out from the highest point there’s nothing but empty
ocean on all sides, and the island itself is just as empty. Why bother?”
However, by the time I left I had walked every inch of it.
We spent the day
snorkeling, splashing around in the ocean, and of course drinking. We wrestled a bit in the surf, but he made no
advances, paid no attention to my body, and kept his speech free of the sexual
innuendo to which I had become accustomed.
Had I misjudged him, or was it his turn to tease me? If so, I deserved it. Now it was my turn to be wary.
But when we returned at
night and lay naked under the blankets, the tarp-covered lean-to roof above us,
the embers of our fire glowing ten feet away, he asked, “Aren’t you going to
kiss me goodnight?”
Read the whole story, An Island Interlude at Wilde Oats.
Read the whole story, An Island Interlude at Wilde Oats.
Anel Viz is a regular contributor to Wilde Oats. A native New Yorker transplanted with only mild success to the Midwest and who has spent much of life in French-speaking countries, returned to his childhood passion of writing fiction and poetry a few years ago. He looks forward to devoting himself to it full time, having recently retired from college teaching. He writes in a variety of genres and enjoys pushing the envelope, both in his literary experiments and his treatment of sex. In addition to his Wilde Oats stories, his publications include 4 novels, 3 novellas, 7 short stories, 3 prose poem cycles, and Kaleidoscope, a short-story anthology. His 2-volume anthology, Horror, Dark & Lite, was released by Silver Publishing at Halloween.
website: http://bookworld.editme.com/AnelViz
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