Laura stood in awe, arms crossed and legs spread. Her jean cutoffs had not started that way, but they did the trick on this island. Her blouse, now sleeveless and tied across her chest rather than buttoned, had seen better days as well. Her brunette hair was down, but only as the night before her elastic had vanished and she had nothing to keep it up with. Her nose crinkled as her blue eyes searched.
The airplane wreck before her was the shock. A mass of metal and wires was really all it was now.
Two days ago, Laura had put the two-seat sport craft into the sand bank on this island after traversing through a storm off the west coast of Florida. She had not intended to enter the dreaded Bermuda Triangle…nor had she intended to crash the plane when she lifted off in Fort Lauderdale.
The storm had been freakish…that Laura was still alive, doubly so…that she had been able to scavenge a wine bottle (full when she first pulled it from the plane), cork screw, pad of paper and a working pen from the wreckage; well, those odds were astronomical. Being the only compass on the plane was destroyed, made the event all the more comical.
The intended destination had been a tiny air strip in Key West to meet Matthew, her husband, for the swinger’s convention.
Instead, she stood on a beach with a decent wine induced headache and scribbled out a note on the paper.
Tiny was a word that might be seen as too big for describing this island. At best, it was the size of a tiny bungalow…a shack once the space taken up by the crashed plane was accounted for. Another miracle, it seemed, was that the plane had crashed without burning the one tree…or anything else, for that matter…likely as part of the reason it had crashed was that someone had forgotten to fill the fuel tank.
Laura scribbled, not realizing that it was her piloting skills, alone, that had kept her from the bottom of the Atlantic. Her cursive was readable, but awkward, and it read:
“Crashed on deserted island. First man to find me will get the best blow job he has ever experienced.”
With a chuckle, she ripped the sheet from the pad, folded it twice and rolled it. Sliding it into the open wine bottle, she placed the cork back in and jammed it as hard as she could in her half-drunken hang-over weakened state.
As the sun’s bottom vanished into the ocean on the western horizon, Laura threw the bottle in a tight spiral that John Elway would have been impressed by. It landed well out among the waves and began its journey.
Laura, sat beneath the one tree and munched on a large juicy leaf. Just for a moment, as the sun was nearly washed away from site, she thought she saw the light catch off the bottle and shine to her as it headed north…or at least what she thought was north. She curled up on her beach and fell into a deep sleep.
The air horn awoke her. As her eyes opened, she first saw the Russian submarine a few hundred yards out in the water with its sail and planes bobbing in the waves. She then saw the three yachts that had set anchor at about the same distance off to the left. Then the American aircraft carrier that was currently bearing down on them. Finally, she noticed the splashing of the hundreds of men swimming towards her. Her acute hearing then picked up voices of them yelling to each other in encouragement…
Wait…no…that wasn’t encouragement…in fact they were yelling obscenities at each other and telling the other men that, “I was here first, now fuck off!”
“Oh, shit,” she whispered as her mind remembered what she had written in the note.