Something Fish-y

Nice, Bob. For this rainy, thundery morning we have some scorching sun.

He lay at the foot of the Willemstoren lighthouse steps, pieces of broken coral flung onshore by the last storm digging into his back. He wasn't at all sure how he got there and had no idea how he would get back to his bungalow. Before he had even opened his eyes he knew where he was. How? A groan escaped his sun-dried lips as he levered himself up into a sitting position with his elbows, the rubble tearing and scraping his skin. This is the reason they call this stuff ironshore, he thought, there's not a hint of comfort in it. The world swayed dizzyingly as he looked around, hoping to see his rental truck parked nearby. Unless it was behind the lighthouse or beyond the rubble berm a hundred yards down toward the slave huts, he was screwed. From the position of the sun, straight overhead, he guessed it was siesta time on the island. The only people out and about in this blazing sun were crazy scuba diving tourists and they were at least sane enough to be underwater where it was cooler, not frying their brains in the sun. While he sat there considering his transportation problem he was checking himself for injuries. His head was pounding but a quick feel of his skull didn't produce any bruised or squishy spots, thank God. He attributed his headache to having been lying broiling under the tropical sun for who knows how many hours. His arms and legs seemed to be working. So he braced a fist on the ground and slowly stood up. Not bad, he thought, swaying a bit. He looked around again hoping that from his lofty height of six feet he would spot his truck and, if not that, then someone who might drive him to town. No glass or chrome winked at him from any direction, except for the shards of broken auto glass mixed with coral gravel which was a common thing on this island of relatively well-to-do diving tourists and young native men who sought to balance things a bit. He shuffled into the narrow sliver of shade on the back side of the lighthouse and immediately felt better. His hands roamed through his pockets hoping for a clue to how he had ended up unconscious at the southern end of this desert island. No keys, no wallet, a clean folded handkerchief came out of his hip pocket, and there was a matchbook in his shirt pocket. He didn't smoke, hadn't for years. He turned it over in his hand. China Palace was imprinted in gold on the faded red cover. The restaurant had closed more than ten years ago. The building was now a moped rental place. Where had the matchbook come from? His head lifted at the sound of an approaching vehicle. He tucked the little cardboard folder back in his pocket, stepped out of the shade, and raised an arm to flag it down.

You cursed me, Bob, with your talk of novel threads. Now I can't help weaving these bits together ever so slightly.

See you tonight.
--Barbara