Island Paradise

Here's another assignment by Laura harkening back to the "Write a story set during your most recent vacation" assignment. Enjoy!

Island Paradise
by Laura Mahoney

A New England September is like a hunk of week-old cheese: cold, clammy, and slightly off-putting. The last vestiges of summer filled with visits to the cape, eating corn on the cob and lobster rolls by the seashore, are but a golden memory, and you begin to brace yourself for the unavoidable onslaught of winter.
At that time of year, I would give anything to hold on to that pure ecstasy of summer for just another week or two. I long for the chance to transport myself to some sunny paradise where I would never be more than a stone’s throw from a beach. So when I learned of the opportunity at my office to win a trip to anywhere in the world, I jumped at the chance.
But which paradise would be my paradise? There were so many to choose from, and as a travel agent, I was all too familiar with their names and resorts: there was the Beachcomber Resort on its own private island off the coast of Fiji, reportedly the best place for snorkeling in the country due to its status as a protected marine wildlife sanctuary. Or perhaps the Secrets Resort in Playa del Carmen Mexico, where an all-inclusive lifestyle would surely give me that sense of luxury I desired.
When faced with so many decisions, it became a bit overwhelming. I finally sat down to write my application essay, and thought about what I loved about traveling in the first place. I began to realize that all of my favorite vacations had involved being on the water in some way. From crossing the Atlantic to Scandinavia aboard a training ship for 2 months on a summer break from college, to the boat I took to a deserted island off the coast of Jamaica. There was also my trip to Costa Rica, where my traveling companion and I made a point of being on the water in some capacity at least once every day.
I flipped through a couple of tour brochures, all glistening with photos of dozens of boat trips. There was a triple-decker wood-paneled passenger boat for drifting lazily down the Amazon in Peru, a majestic-looking tall-ship for a week’s journey from Sao Paolo to Rio de Janeiro, and even a glamorous yacht for island-hopping in Greece.
But the one boat that caught my eye was neither glamorous nor majestic. It looked to me like it had seen one too many tourist seasons. The photos of the cabins looked as though they were peering into the dark cramped space of a closet, rather than a room where you were expected to stow yourself and a week’s worth of luggage.
But all that could be endured, I thought, because the destination this boat would give me the freedom to explore was Croatia.
Not the first place you think of when you think of “beach paradise.” The mere mention of the place most likely conjures of images of a politically unstable, war-ravaged landscape. For me, however, it was just the kind of remote, less traveled place I was looking for.
The trip I took was a 7-day island-hopping excursion. I pored over the tour dossier excitedly, and tried to wrap my mouth around exotic words like Makarska, “Brac” (pronounced Buh-rotch), Hvar (ha-var), and Mljet (still not sure about that one.) We ate, drank, slept, and drank some more while sunbathing on the well-worn decks of our “vintage sailing ship.” Though the sun was almost always shining, sunbathing was something you could only do in spans of about 45 minutes to an hour. Our tight schedule meant we were sailing from about 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. each day at a fairly high speed, so wind was constantly whipping over the decks, causing the Croatian flag hung proudly at our stern to be nearly ripped to shreds. For respite and to nurse wind-burned faces, it was necessary to gather your things and go indoors to the dining room for a game of cards or to read a book.
Our crewmembers were all Croatian and spoke no English, save the waiter. He was a forty-something guy named Tonchi with lots of lines in his face. There was the cook, a grisly old fellow who we affectionately named “Cook,” in part because his given name was also Tonchi. Moving up in the ranks, there was the first mate: a tall, lanky fellow of few words, who had an unsettling way of sneaking up on you, and who was the son of the Captain, or El Capitan to my raucous Australian boatmates.
The fact that English was a rare commodity among our fearless leaders was something of a challenge. Living on a boat in an unfamiliar country, and traveling from place to place each day, requires at least a rudimentary form of communication between passenger and crew. Take for example the scene that unfolds upon arrival at one of the afore-mentioned unpronounceable islands. It’s 3:00 in the afternoon, and thirty-two young adults, near exhaustion from overexposure to sun, wind, and warm Croatian beer, anxious for some solid ground and a change of scenery, are all clambering to run off the boat and see the sights while there is still a little daylight left. But what is this place? Where is here? And what time is it necessary to be back on the boat to ensure that we don’t get left behind while the rest of the group continues on down the jagged coast? The only information we received in return was Tonchi (the waiter)’s chicken scratch on a chalkboard above the gangway leading off the boat. All that appeared there was an indication of the time we would need to be back on the boat in the morning: 0700. Thank God for the universal language of the 24-hour clock.
All in all it was a fabulous trip, highlighted by the 2-hour walk around the two-story high medieval wall encompassing the UNESCO world-heritage site at Dubrovnik, which affords spectacular views of the ancient stone city and the island-dotted Adriatic sea that crashes up against the wall like an enemy invader. Despite my many adventures along the way, including a pirate theme party on International Talk Like a Pirate Day, I don’t think Croatia is the beach paradise I was hoping for. While beaches do abound in a coastline with over 1,000 islands, they’re mostly covered in pebbles and are painful to walk on. Maybe next time I’ll stick to the old standbys, and leave the exploring to someone else.

Moment of Discovery

Deftly, his practiced fingers unhinged the lock on the large, wooden chest that held the secrets of his origin.

His skin buzzed from the elevated nanobot activity in his veins.

Almost automatically the adrenaline boost activated to increase his heart rate and ensure total focus. “Better than a triple espresso,” he would brag to the cell-based skinners at on Drakmar VI.

The lock wasn’t the real threat. The box contained nano viruses. The NVs would reprogram his ‘bots to kill him. Bad way to go.

Removing a long thin tube, he unraveled a sheet of material so thin it appeared to be two dimensional. Slowly he lowered to horizontal material across and through the chest.

The material singed an ugly dark mottle as he passed it through the box before it self-ignited with a hissing crackle.

Seventeen years he had been searching for this box. All his money, all his time, what was left of his humanity and now it was here in front of him.

Activating the cam inside his ocular implant for posterity he simultaneously reached into the past and into his future…

-Brihac

Next Stop, Haaaaaarvard Square!

Here's a post from Laura, harkening back to one of our most popular assignments, "Write a Haiku about Pirates Stealing your Lunch."

Ordinary day
Listening to my Ipod
On my way to work.

Stuffed like a sardine
In this tin can subway car
Between two big dudes.

I crank up the sound
Groove out to some old Motown
To drown out the crowd

In my lap rests lunch:
A sandwich of ham and cheese
And a pudding snack.

Painstakingly packed
This morning while I tuned in
To Ellen’s dance moves.

Suddenly I see
Dude 1 looking down at me
Ogling my lunch.

I pretend all’s well
But I can’t avoid his stare.
“Whatcha got there, hmm?”

“Oh, this? It’s nothing.
Just some two-day-old cold cuts,”
I say nervously.

I notice he has
A parrot on his shoulder.
My god a pirate!

As we pull into
The next stop, he drawls “Ay Mate,
This be Harrrrrrrvard Square.”

He gets up, walks out
Leaving me in peace at last.
I breathe a heavy sigh.

Just as the doors close
His parrot swoops back in and
Deftly grabs my lunch.

Before I know what’s what
The parrot and his owner
Are reunited.

They slip from my view
Just beyond the plexiglass.
Enjoy lunch, you fiends!

So I says to my bunkmate

So I says to my bunkmate, “Fingers, you gots to see dis.”

And Fingers, rolls over in his bunk, which I can hear from below and I am guessing he stares at what I’m eyeballing and all he says is, “that ain’t good.”

So, I prods him a bit for conversation and I says, “Ain’t that your place, where you lived before we was busted last time? Think they are gonna rearrange all them paintings of poker dogs you got up on the walls?”

And I am guessing he was just nodding only I couldn’t see on account of him being in the upper bunk and me being in the lower one. But again he says, “That ain’t good.”

So, I keeps looking at the television and its one of them home turnover shows where they take one guys lousy taste in decorating his walls and picking furniture and trade it for someone else’s, but there’s always some dame screaming as it happens and everyone hugs afterward. Reminds me of a turf war, but I don’t really get it.

Anyways, on this particular eppy-sode they was taking a run down old house offa Mulberry and they was going to gut it, walls and all and turn it into some kind of yuppie-tarium or something.

“Hey, fingers,” I says at this point, “ain’t that your old joint, where you lived before we came to stay at this fine establishment? Waddn’t that the one you was going to fix up with the loot from our haul.”

Then, like a broken record Fingers comes back to me with, “That ain’t good.”

“I thought you stilled owned that place, oh, hey, ain’t that your sister, Fingers? Ain’t that Phyllis? She don’t look so good no more, ever since you broke her nose. That’s old Philly thought ain’t it?”

Fingers does his line again and I can’t get nothing more from him. Then the show changes - like. Not that it ain’t the same show anymore, but they change the speed and the lights and stuff like that and there is this far away kind of look at the house then, Wham! The whole thing goes up inna ball of flame.

Well, I am hooting and hollering and laughing so hard I nearly shits myself and then I get all quiet and I turns to Finger, even though I knows he can’t see me through the bunk. “Wasn’t that house where you stashed the dough from the last job? You said no one would find it, you promised me Phyllis wouldn’t get it ‘cause you booby trapped the hiding place with a big bomb which… ah, shit.

“That ain’t good.”

-Brihac

Trash my Bath!

I was casually flipping through channels when a familiar pattern of wallpaper caught my eye.

A couple in their early thirties was standing in a fantastic bathroom. The wallpaper was peacock blue and rich Tudor brown and silver leaf, and drawn in intricate Art Nouveau floral designs. The woodworking was dark and rich, and pendant lamps in lapis blown glass hung in delicate drips over the sink and toilet area. The commode and the sink were a royal blue as well - not an easy color to find a toilet in. A rich cobalt tile covered the floor of the bathroom, and extended up the walls of the shower. The whole room was steeped in glimmering glamour. It was stunning. It was decadent.

It was my old house.

My husband and I sold the house two years ago when our kids moved out. We bought a condo and moved south. But I was thrilled to see my design being showcased on this HGTV show and quickly hit the info button on my remote to see why they were highlighting it. I called my husband into the living room and then read the paragraph blurb about the show. As I read, my excitement slowly turned to horror.

The show was called "Trash my Bath!" and it promised demolition of horrid bathroom design and renovation into a new space. Surely they were using my bathroom as a "what to do" on this show. But as I listened to the thirtysomethings in my old house talking about my luxurious bathroom, it became all too clear that it was not praise they were heaping upon my design skills. Adjectives like "hideous" and "nightmarish" and "ghastly" bounced off my beautiful wallpaper - a very expensive paper, mind you - and the thirtysomethings lamented about the "old fashioned" lamps and the "cave-like" darkness of the rich wood in the room.

I was offended. I was aghast. I was horrified when the show's host appeared in a hard hat with a sledgehammer and decimated the beautiful cobalt tiles in the shower. The wood cabinets were gutted and thrown in a dumpster. My pendant lamps were tossed and I nearly cried as I heard the glass break. The wallpaper was scoured and saturated and pulled off, and a blase taupe paint went up where the bold pattern used to be.

In the end, my old bathroom looked like every other bathroom these days - a dull, taupe box with white trim and boring white porcelain fixtures. No imagination, no escapism, no luxury. I could hardly bear it. I snapped off the television and grabbed my purse. There was decorating to be done. I needed to set things right. My husband didn't even blink as I headed out the door to the nearest showroom, in search of new design heights to combat the unimaginative designs of today. I already had a palette in mind - dusty rose, mint green, and gold leaf. And lots of whitewashed wicker. It would be decadent and lush and most certainly not taupe. And then I would have the last laugh.