Yet again, an errant sunbeam lasered through a dingy porthole, stirring Jonas from his deep slumber. Rather than dreaming of buxom blondes, on boats or otherwise, his nocturnal musings were focused on returning to his life. His normal, non-island based, coconut free life. His interesting job, his pleasant coworkers, and most importantly, a general lack of danger. However, these enjoyable thoughts were disturbed by the faint sense that, while safe, his life before the shipwreck was…underwhelming. Incomplete. A bit lonely, even. He couldn’t remember feeling this way before the wreck, or maybe just since hearing all about the exciting and full lives that the sailors on board the Point Bridge had lived.

  His musings were interrupted by a loud banging on his cabin door.

  “We’re pulling into La Guaira now,” called Willy through the door. “Grab your stuff and we’ll get you into the loving arms of your friends and family. Or at least the loving arms of the US Embassy,” he laughed. “You might need to wait a bit longer to get back to the rest.”

  Jonas scrambled out of the bunk, quickly brushing his teeth and anxiously trying to straighten out his tangled mop of messy black hair. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he grabbed the few items he had rescued from the island and let Willy lead him up to the deck. He stood just outside the superstructure as the large vessel eased itself into a vacant slip in the bustling industrial port, shedding a silent tear as the Point Bridge came to a stop and lowered a gangplank to the jetty.

  “You’ve made it, son,” said Captain Maxwell, suddenly appearing behind Jonas. “Go ahead and head straight down the jetty to the end and you’ll find the Harbormaster’s Office. Tell them that you need to contact the US Embassy. They should be expecting your call and someone will come pick you up and get you headed back to your real life.”

  “I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done for me, Captain,” said Jonas, starting to choke up. “I really thought I would never make it off that godforsaken island. You and your crew not only saved my life, but helped restore a bit of my sanity to boot. Next time you guys are in New York you have to give me a call. I left my contact information on a notepad I found in Sergei's desk drawer. Please, let the crew know that I’d love to see any or all of you again.”

  “Go ahead and let them know yourself,” said the Captain, pointing over Jonas’ shoulder. He turned and was startled to see the entire crew gathered on the deck to give him a sendoff. Jonas wept openly now, embracing every one of the men as he made his way to the gangplank. With a final wave, he made his way down to the jetty and swiftly walked along the water until he reached the office. Turning to take another look at the Point Bridge, he was confused when he couldn’t spot it on the jetty.

  “Huh, that’s weird,” he muttered to himself. “I must have walked further down the jetty than I thought. I guess it’s behind that big ass container ship.” Putting the incongruity out of his mind, he entered the Harbormaster’s Office and strode over to the woman sitting behind a large desk. Jonas immediately ran into trouble when she didn’t speak any English and his Spanish was limited to ordering Mexican food. Eventually she figured out that he wanted to speak to the Embassy when he pointed to the front of his passport and repeated the word “ambassador” with a series of vaguely Spanish-sounding pronunciations. After several minutes of conversation in rapid-fire Spanish, she silently handed him the phone.

  “Is this Mr. Grumby, by any chance?” asked a woman’s voice. “Mr. Jonas Grumby?”

  “Yes,” he exclaimed. “I’m Jonas Grumby. I’ve been shipwrecked for almost two months and was just rescued by a cargo ship and they dropped me off at some port here in Venezuela. I can’t remember the name of it and I don’t speak any Spanish. Can you please send someone to come and get me?”

  “There’s already someone there waiting for you at the Coast Guard station Mr. Grumby,” said the woman. “We got a call from someone claiming to be a ship’s captain that was inbound for La Guaira with a rescued American. The call quality was terrible so we couldn’t quite make out all the details, but we didn’t want to run the risk of missing you so we’ve had someone there for the past day and a half. Can you make your way to the Coast Guard building? Woody should be either out in front of the building or just inside the lobby. He’ll bring you back here and we will get you debriefed and on your way back Stateside as soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” said Jonas with a sigh of relief. “I’ll find someone named Woody at the Coast Guard building.” He paused before realizing that he might actually have a problem. “Um, how do you say Coast Guard in Spanish?”

  “GuardaCostas,” the woman said with a chuckle.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll hopefully see you soon.” He hung up and, asking the pleasant receptionist for directions, he headed out of the office and in the direction she pointed. After a few wrong turns, Jonas ended up in front of an official looking building and spotted a man leaning against a wall in a rumpled suit. “Woody?” he called out as he approached.

  “Yeah,” the man said, lurching upright. “You Mister Gumbo?”

  “Close enough,” said Jonas. “You my ride?”

  “Close enough,” said Woody with a laugh. “Let’s get out of this heat.”

  * * * * *

  After a thorough debriefing with the woman from the Embassy, Jonas was handed a plane ticket back to New York which departed that evening. He sailed through Airport Security, his ragged appearance notwithstanding, and had an easy, uneventful flight home, though he found himself unable to fall asleep on the plane despite his exhaustion. Letting himself into his apartment at 2 AM, Jonas expected to continue struggling but he fell asleep almost as soon as he sat down in his bed.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The next morning, Jonas woke in a daze. He blearily stumbled through his normal morning routine. Well, his previous normal routine, that is. No bathing in the ocean, no scrounging for water, and certainly no fucking coconuts. Stepping out of the shower with a towel around his waist, he critically regarded his reflection in the mirror. He was certainly leaner and well tanned, but his hair and beard were a mess. Deciding that he just couldn’t be bothered at this point and stepped back into his bedroom. Turning on the TV to break up the oppressive silence, he realized with a start that it was Monday. And not just any Monday, but the Monday that his team was all supposed to return from their mandatory vacation.

  Without consciously making a decision, Jonas ambled into his closet, put on his suit, grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door. Sitting in the cab on his way to the office, he realized that he hadn’t done anything about his ragged hair or his unkempt beard. Deciding that he couldn’t be bothered to worry about something as trivial as that, he leaned back in the seat and stared out the window, taking in the everpresent bustle and hubbub of New York.

  “I’m sorry sir, but you need an appointment to go past this point,” said Ginger Grant, the attractive receptionist manning Thurston-Howell’s front desk . She stood up at her desk to intercept the bedraggled man in a surprisingly nice suit exiting the elevator.

  “Good morning Ginger,” said Jonas. “I’m pretty sure I don’t need an appointment to go to my own office.” He laughed, striding confidently past her and entering the plushly decorated offices.

  “Mr. Grumby?” she asked, stunned at his appearance. Seeing that he had already passed her, she could only stare at his retreating back in confusion. “What the fuck happened to him on that vacation?”

  Jonas continued to walk through the office, making his way towards his team’s pod at the end of the hall. He never noticed the crowd of gawking onlookers trailing in his wake, though he did wave at a few of his teammates that he spotted.

  He only paused once on his way through the floor, when he spotted Bob, a friend as well as a colleague, sipping a carton of coconut water. Stopping abruptly, he stared intently at the drink in his friend’s hand. He slowly reached out, plucked it from Bob’s unresisting grip, and then violently threw it into the trash can.

  “No more coconuts,” he quietly said to Bob with an intense stare. “No more coconuts. None. Not ever. Never again.” Turning to the gawking onlookers, he continued in a more moderate tone. “Please pass the word that I would kindly appreciate it if nobody at this company ever, ever, ever brought anything coconut related to work. Ever. Thank you.”

  Leaving the growing crowd behind, he continued down the hallway into his office, gently shutting the door behind him. Easing himself into his luxurious chair, he couldn’t find a comfortable position to sit. Giving up, he grabbed his laptop and sat on the floor, leaning against the side of his desk. He remained in this position, checking emails and getting caught up on what had happened during his absence, until Mary Ann, his loyal secretary, slowly opened the door and peeked inside.

  “Hey boss,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. “Could you maybe fill me in on what the fuck is going on?”

  Jonas laughed loudly and genuinely, continuing on until it slid into hysteria. At a loss for what to do, Mary Ann slipped inside, shut the door behind her, and scooped her boss into a hug. Once he finally managed to get himself under control, he slowly explained to her what had happened to him after she had sent him off on his tropical vacation. He was pretty sure that he’d done a better job this time than he had on board the Point Bridge, but he knew that he still wasn’t on their level.

  “We should do something nice for those men who rescued you,” said Mary Ann. “Do you know how to get in touch with them?”

  Jonas realized with a lurch that he had never gotten a cell number or email address from the captain or any of the crew. Mary Ann was undeterred by this lapse in judgment, however.

  “No problem. We can just look up the ship and figure out who owns it. That should give us a way to get in touch with them. Maybe we can arrange a nice meal out next time they’re in the country.” She took Jonas’ laptop from him to begin hunting down the owners while he regaled her with some of the better stories that the crew members had shared with him over that long afternoon. Engrossed in his recollections, he missed the growing expression of concern on her face.

  “Um, boss?” she asked. “What was the name of that ship again?”

  “It was the Point Bridge,” he answered assuredly. “Couldn’t forget it. They all seemed so proud to be on that ship.”

  “And the captain’s name?”

  “Charles Maxwell,” he said. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I…think so. Here, take a look for yourself.” She handed him the laptop with a newspaper article pulled up.

  “Confluence of Leap Day and the Bermuda Triangle Proves Fateful for Missing Cargo Vessel,” the headline read. The article described the loss at sea of a bulk carrier named the MV Point Bridge, noting that it apparently sailed into a fog bank in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle and never exited. No sign of the wreckage or any of the crew had ever been found. The article was dated mid-March of 2000.

  Scrolling down, Jonas spotted several photographs of the missing crew members and was stunned. There was Captain Maxwell, staring resolutely over the bow of a small fishing boat. Here was Willy in a tuxedo, arm draped over the shoulder of his beautiful wife. A photo of a much younger Fitzy in a Navy uniform was tucked down at the bottom of the page.

  Stunned, Jonas looked over at Mary Ann with tears streaming down his face.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “How is this possible? The ship sank, they all died, 25 years ago? What?”

  Mary Ann could only shrug uncomfortably, at a loss for what to tell her stricken boss.

  “But how? What? I mean, they rescued me from that island. They physically took me from that island to Venezuela. How else could I have made it back here? What? They were real. So real. We sat around for hours on the way back, sharing life experiences and telling stories. Great stories. And they were all dead? Ghosts?”

  Mary Ann gave him another hug as he struggled to come to grips with this revelation.

  “You know what’s weird?” he asked rhetorically. “The one thing I can’t get out of my head is how much better they were than me at telling stories. I guess, maybe, dead men tell the best tales.”