The shiny hardcover book hit the metal arm of the beach chair, then fell broken-backed onto the sand. B.J.'s head dropped back.
'What?' Ronnie said.
'I can't stand it. ' Her husband sat with his eyes closed, with coconut butter glistening all over his body. 'I hate this sitting around. I feel like a goddamn kid who has to have his mother come with him every time he wants to take a swim or go explore. Or do anything! '
Ronnie Singer looked up from her paperback. She closed one eye to the bright 10:00 A.M. sun. 'Oh, go ahead, then. ' She spoke with the softest, teasing Texas accent. 'You go drown yourself, honey. Get your head cut off by the Zulus.... See if Mom really cares. Mom doesn't care a damn. '
B.J. crossed one hairless leg over the other. The big redheaded man growled at his wife.
'Ohhh... Mom cares, ' Ronnie then cooed from her beach blanket.
'I would like... to take off this itchy swimsuit now. On our own personal private beach. And soak up some of our own private sun on my own shriveled private parts. And dip those poor neglected bastards in our sparkling blue sea.... Just like the TV ad suggested. Remember the TV ad for this place?'
Ronnie Singer closed her book with a dull thud. The little blond woman let out a large-size sigh. Her big breasts expanded impressively under a thin polka-dot strip of bathing suit. Mom, she called herself.
'All right, let's go for a walk, sailor.'
II I'll do it.' B.J. flashed a smile.
'I don't know if I'm brave enough to take off my clothes, though.'
'Swish, swish, swish,' B.J. kidded her.
'Very funny, B.J. Cool it.'
they walked north through two pretty coves. to a smaller, more private beach where the big brown hulk of a wrecked schooner sat out a few hundred yards from shore.
When they came up, even-steven with the rigless boat, B.J., then Ronnie, waded out into clear bluegreen water full of tiny angelfish.
Ronnie slipped off the top of her suit and let her sand white breasts float free on the water. She started to laugh, to blush even.
Once the cool water got up around his chest, the navy man turned to check out the kelly green of West Hills. 'Prettiest damn jungle he started to say.
Then he saw two shirtless blacks lying in a grove
of baby palms. Unbelievable, heart-freezing sight. You never believe it can happen to you.
'Oh, Jesus, my God,' he whispered to Ronnie. 'They're on this beach.' The young couple began to swim out toward the shipwreck. Slow wading at first, then an athletic breaststroke. ' Go behind it. ' B. J - had taken command. ' You make it okay, Ronnie?'
Damian Rose's first rifle shot hit with a thunk eight yards in front of them.
The Singers pulled up short. Then they kept going toward the old wreck. Much more frantic now. Hard, splashing strokes.
A second shot kicked up water less than a foot away from B.J. A third shot echoed in the distance but never seemed to hit anywhere. B.J. didn't let on that he'd been hit in the back.
Finally they were in the long, cool shadow cast by the schooner. The boat towered thirty to forty feet over their bobbing heads. Ugly rot and barnacles were visible all over the sides.
As they swam around one corner of the schooner, Ronnie felt a strong sweep of water at her side. Like a cold spring. The topless woman turned her head slightly-saw a four-, maybe five-foot silverish shadow not twelve inches away. For a moment she stopped swimming altogether. Her head dipped underwater. She had quick, panicky thoughts of her two young sons back in Newport News; of her mother; of drowning.
Another silver streak surfaced at B.J.'s side. Flashing. Twisting. At least a sixty-pound great barracuda. Two of them now.
'Swim easy,' B.J. gasped. 'Stay behind the boat. No matter what. Swim easy, babe.'
The cigar-shaped fish seemed to glide in the water. Back and forth with the larger humans; touching their tails as if exploring; showing off sharp, pointy teeth.
Feeling the pain in his upper back, B.J. finally floated under the schooner's sagging bow. sprit. From there he could see the beach clearly.
He spotted the two barebacked blacks retreating up into the hills. He couldn't see the rifleman anywhere.... He watched the blacks until they disappeared into thick, thick jungle. Watched until the pain in his back was too great. Then he and Ronnie paddled around the boata man and a woman-and the two big, surging fish.
The Singers were careful not to make sudden movements as they swam. they were careful to do as little splashing as possible. As little breathing.
And finally, when the young man and woman got into four or five feet of water-when they could just touch bottom-the great barracudas turned away. The fish flashed their tails and headed back
Ronnie ran the last fifty yards to shore.
As the Singers lay on the wet sand like shipwrecked survivors, Damian Rose squeezed, squeezed, shot them both dead anyway.
to be simplistic about things, I just didn't want to live and die in some godforsaken whistle-stop. Like Madame Bovary.
