The thoughts are pessimistic, but they’re true. No use denying them.
I ignore the sour feeling in my chest, and head out across the sand. I sit down near the water, watching the sun rise, coloring the sky behind Atarangi into shades of lavender and orchid. The morning has a purple tone, washing the lagoon with a lilac tint.
Every sunrise has meaning. Every sunrise is a chance to start again.
These days, it’s the only thing I have to count on.
After our expedition to the abandoned research station yesterday, we decided to wait until today to move there. It took a long time for Richard and Lacey to stop fighting after she found out her last name was actually Boner, not Bon-Air. Lacey Boner does have a certain ring to it, though.
There’s part of me that wants to stay behind here, so I figure I’ll come back later. I’ll probably sleep here at night. Just hope none of them take offense to that.
When I’m done watching the sunrise, I start lighting the fire for our breakfast, expecting to see Daisy again. When she doesn’t show, I can’t help but feel disappointed. Maybe she’s decided to stay away.
It’s for the best.
Eventually everyone gets up, we eat, taking our time to get ready for the day, then we all go about packing up our stuff for the journey across the island.
“What are you doing?” I ask Daisy, who keeps darting in and out of the forest with sticks and palm fronds.
“I’m creating a new sign,” she says. “Since I have to pack up my shit and what not.”
“Don’t forget your vibrator,” I yell at her.
She gives me a dirty look.
The trek inland takes longer this time, with Richard only able to see out of one eye and stumbling every couple of minutes, doing his best Jerry Lewis impersonation. Everyone is tired and hot from carrying their gear, and the mosquitos are out in full force. Plus, Lacey feels like she has to stop and identify every single plant she comes across, from guava (which we pile into our bags to eat later), to weeds with antiseptic and antibacterial properties. Naturally, she takes samples of those too.
Finally, we come to the waterfall.
The payoff is worth it.
This time we have soap and shampoo with us, so everyone jumps in the pool and cleans the hell out of themselves, myself included, then we proceed to do some laundry as well so we can dry it out on the beach later. After ten days at sea and a few days shipwrecked, we all need it.
We even manage to have lunch at the pool, just some crackers and dried fruit. Richard tries his hand at fishing after Daisy told him about the mystery fish, but we don’t have any bait. I tell them I’ll look for some clams later in the ocean and see what we can do. Fresh caught fish over an open flame would be a good way to welcome in our (temporary) life at the new camp.
When we finally get to the bungalows, everyone is exhausted. We have just enough energy to dry things out on the beach, choose beds, and explore a little.
“I’ve never seen so many different types of plumeria in one place,” Lacey marvels, as she touches the frangipani (which is what we call it in New Zealand).
“I thought you hated flowers,” Daisy says to her.
Lacey gives her a disgruntled look. “I never said that.”
“You never said that, but you purposely used zero flowers at the wedding. Which was weird, but you know, you’re a plant person.”
“I used to grow roses, remember?” she says.
“So it has nothing to do with my name being Daisy? A flower?”
Lacey rolls her eyes. “Oh my god. You would think that, wouldn’t you?”
“How could I not?”
Ah, fuck. The sisters are about to go at it again. Every day there’s a different fight. Maybe everyone sleeping in one building isn’t the best idea.
I glance at Richard to exchange an oh boy look with him, but he’s staring over my shoulder in shock.
It’s probably that damn goat, I think, turning around.
Nope.
It’s a man.
“Hello there,” the man says.
All four of us jump at once. Lacey screams.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says in an American accent, holding his hands out as if to calm us. “I was curious about the castaways and here you are. The name is Fred, by the way. Fred Ferguson.”
Fred Ferguson’s a short guy, paunchy, with a bushy white mustache, balding grey hair at the top. He’s got big reflective sunglasses that look straight out of the ‘80s, wearing a dirt-stained T-shirt that says “Beer Me” and red cargo shorts. No shoes.
“Hello Fred,” I say warily. “Where did you come from?”
So suddenly, into our lives.
Fred chuckles and gestures behind him. “Got a dinghy on the other side of those palms. Down the beach. Came from over there.” He points far across the lagoon to one of the longer islands. “Noticed the two of you yesterday, looking about.” Nods at me and Daisy. “Heard about your boat. My condolences.”