Stranded

Following the daily routine, I scratch another mark into the coconut tree. Sixty marks. Sixty days on this god forsaken deserted island.
Breakfast consists of the last of yesterday’s fish, washed down with coconut milk.
I hate fish!
After breakfast, I walk up the hill to scan the ocean, hoping to spot a ship’s sails on the horizon.
Nothing.
Back at the beach, I scratch another note and place it in a bottle – I’m still waiting for the reply to my last one.
It reads: “12” Pepperoni with peppers, large fries and a diet coke. Large tip for prompt delivery.”

Stranded Part II

Day Ninety-one.
I hear the noise of an engine over the surf. I see a light bouncing up and down as it crashes through the surf.
I can’t believe my eyes. Have I finally succumbed to madness?
I watch a battered jetski arrive, not far from my makeshift camp.
At last! I’ve been rescued!
The driver, a Rastafarian, rummages in his backpack. “Ya gotta sign ‘ere, mon,” he demands. “Cash or Debit Cay-ard?”
I sign and hand over my visa.
He turns to leave.
“Wait! Aren’t you rescuing me?”
“Sorry, mon. Ma insurance doesn’t cover no passengers, mon:- Company policy!”