Must be hard on Connie. I’ll have to be more understanding.

After she told us to cut it out, we just stood there silent as the “men” gathered floating treasures.

The sand of the beach was almost white. The water lapped in gently—no big combers, I guess, because of the reef. (There’d been some pretty good waves right after the explosion, but they didn’t last long.) The water, pale blue, was a little murky. It had been incredibly clear until the boat blew, and would probably be that way again in a while. There was a soft, warm breeze taking away the worst of the heat. And there were the gals.

Man oh man.

It’s a shame that Prince Wesley had to go (I’m sure), and it’s too bad that Thelma is taking it so hard, but I couldn’t help thinking how lucky we were to be stranded in a place like this.

At feast far a while.

The longer the better, as far as I’m concerned.

Not really. But I wouldn’t mind a couple of weeks, as long as we don’t starve (no need to worry about fresh water, because of the stream).

After a white, Andrew and Keith returned with a boat full of odds and ends—including some packets of food, but no bits or pieces of Wesley. I’m sure Connie was relieved.

“Is his body out there?” I asked.

“Bet on it,” Keith said.

“We’re going back out,” Andrew said. “We’ve gotta salvage what we can.”

“I could go with you, this time, if you need an extra set of hands.”

“That’s all right, chief,” Andrew said. “Somebody’s gotta stay here and watch out for the ladies.”

Chief. He calls me chief quite a lot. It’s like a thing with him. I’m almost nineteen years old, and he calls me chief like I’m a kid.

Oh, well, maybe it’s quaint.

“Whatever you say, skipper,” I told him.