Perri O’Shaughnessy - Permission To Climb Aboard

Aerial view: A yacht drifts in a vast turquoise sea speckled with small, distant islands.

Closer view: A man and a woman, both very good-looking, sparsely dressed, oiled with suntan lotion, sit together on plush cushions lining the deck of the yacht.

Even closer view:

Wheres that go, Tom? Carolina pointed at a trapdoor she had just noticed on the deck.

Sail storage.

She adjusted the strap on her swimsuit. I guess you know boats. You were a Navy Seal, right?

He nodded. Yeah, but not on boats like this. This is a fifty-two foot Tanaya yacht. The brochure calls her an eye-stopper. And so she is.

She smiled at him. Two bedrooms below. Impressive.

You mean two staterooms.

I dont know much about boats, or yachts, for that matter.

If you knew me well, youd know that I know you know about yachts and boats and Im guessing much more obscure things, too.

She yawned. Just trying to get a dialogue going.

Bored?

Funny, isnt it? I mean, were in paradise. You see it on magazine covers, thinking, oh, thats life worth living.

He scanned the horizon. Its going to be a beautiful evening, and let me remind you, were deeply into the good life.

Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, Carolina relaxed her face in the long rays of the late afternoon sun. Stopped in at the post office in Roadtown lately?

No. He picked up binoculars and put them to his eyes.

You know that wall where they post pictures of the families that have disappeared off their boats-yachts?

He nodded.

Well, theyve updated it. There are new ones, recent ones. Photographs of tousle-haired kids, tanned parents. Grinning dogs. Imagine people taking their dogs on long boat trips. I mean, where do they poop?

He laughed.

Seriously. Thats some sad stuff.

They sat in silence while Carolina leafed through a magazine and Tom continued his scrutiny of the empty horizon. After a while, she put the magazine down, put a white canvas hat on her head, and pulled her ponytail through the back. She squeezed some sunscreen from a soft plastic bottle and rubbed her stomach.

Any good? he asked, sniffing, setting aside the binoculars. Smells nice.

SPF thirty-five. No worries, no burn, baby.

Make me hot, sweet thing. Call me names.

Carolina punched his arm. Pay attention, here. Grow up.

He studied her. I am paying attention, here. You in a bikini: brown and beautiful.

She blushed. Youre cute in those surfer shorts, too. Its sure a different look for you.

A few minutes passed in silence. Then Tom picked up the binoculars again.

A huge yacht skidded by. The wake rocked them.

Tom swerved his binoculars that way. Gotta be sixty-five feet.

Here be rich folk, Carolina said. They devour catered strawberries and pineapple with whipped cream and jump into the sea looking monstrous, loaded with gear, never more than ten meters from yet another of the worlds most dazzling coral reefs.

Hey, you snorkeled yesterday. You thought that parrot fish making those nibbling sounds on the coral was awesome.

He looked like a rainbow.

Check this out. He handed her the binoculars.

She took them and squinted. Two people. A girl and a guy, I think.

In trouble?

Pretty long way off, but Id say so. She handed them back.

A Boston Whaler. He watched. Engine sputtering.

If they need help, theyll signal us somehow.

The guys looking at us through his binoculars. He put his arm around her and held her close. I say we ignore them until they let us know they want us involved. What do you think?

Maybe theyre waiting for help from someone they radioed already, Carolina agreed. She popped open a couple of bottles, handed him one, and nuzzled his neck.

He set the powerful binoculars down and pulled her into a long, slow, showy kiss.

After they parted again, she drank from her bottle, turned away from the approaching boat, and made a face. Ugh. What crap. She set the bottle down.

Won a prize in a blind taste test.

You mean a tasteless taste test.

Well crack out some champagne later, and thats a promise.

She ran fingers through the hair on his chest.

He nibbled her ear. Theyre heading our way. Hes pretty stuck on those binoculars. What a voyeur.

She pushed in close to him.

Youre trembling. Nervous?

Actually, Im excited. Tired of sitting out here with nothing happening, no offense to you. You can be entertaining.

He laughed, and kissed her again. Its just two kids on a rental boat thats running out of gas or something.

They watched the boat approach, its motor roaring intermittently. The pair chugging toward them in the boat, now more visible to the naked eye, appeared youngish, twenties.

They need bailing.

The nearest island is Jost Van Dyck, and thats got to be, um, seven miles away? She accepted a long kiss, which took place more on her cheek than her mouth, and took the binoculars, studying the couple. Tom, hes got two arms up, trying to get our attention. They want help.

Tom stepped up to the yachts shiny wooden wheel. He turned on the motor, and aimed for the Whaler.

A bead of sweat on Carolina s forehead dribbled down her cheek. She brushed it away and turned her face into the wind, watching the little boat get bigger. Her hat flew off and she rushed to retrieve it before it went overboard.

Careful there! Tom said.

Be right back, she said, disappearing below. Moments later, she returned wearing a sarong high over her swimsuit.

Hey, get over here. Snug your hot body closer, said Tom.

Stalker. She nuzzled, then ruffled his hair, looking toward the little boat. Better slow down.

He nodded, slowing.

Dont want to drown them.

Tom cut the engine. The small boat cautiously approached the yacht. The couple on board waved. Tom waved back.

They were going toward Sandy Spit, said Carolina.

Lots of big yachts stop there.

But their engines failing and were closer.

And isolated, said Tom, smelling the skin on her shoulder and sighing. We could ignore them.

Dont get weird on me, okay? That might make me nervous.

Too late.

Sorry for the grease, she said, laughing as his fingers stalled in a tangle of her hair. Three days at sea and everything goes to hell.

Speaking of that. He squinted through the binoculars. The seas rough right now. Theyre rocking.

Closer, closer.

Drink, he said, handing her another brown bottle, then come back and cuddle. Keep in mind were on our honeymoon.

Carolina tossed her old, half-finished bottle, then drank. Tom picked up a new bottle and drank, too.

Silvery-pink clouds blew in the western sky, the indigo sea churning below. The boat pulled up beside them so quickly that the pounding on the side of their yacht startled them both.

Permission to climb aboard? asked the muscular young man, smiling. Always wanted to say that.

Sure, said Tom. He hung a ladder down the side. The young man and his partner, a young woman in a bikini only partly covered by a shirt, grabbed the ladder and nimbly ascended.

Got a cigarette? the young man asked immediately upon dropping onto the deck. He wore a sleeveless tee over a pair of bulky, flowered Hawaiian trunks with multiple pockets that enhanced the fit legs that thrust out of them.

Carolina rummaged and extracted a lighter and a pack from a pocket in the bin beside her.

Cool, the young man said.

She threw the pack and lighter at him.

He caught with easy grace, lit his cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled. Oh, what a killer.