Amelia lay listless, a thirty-something with an old-fashion name on a beach to die for – it was reality straight from the brochure.
Unbelievable really, she'd thought, as usually travel 'come-ons' are doctored in the graphics design department: sunsets being colored-enhanced to ridiculous extent, the fisherman's catch lengthened to exceed the record for that species set in 1923, the surf running two meters higher than ever recorded in that locality – and that's even after hurricanes!
Fiji has 322 islands amid thousands of smaller uprisings of which 106 are inhabited. Although 106 islands sound a huge number they are scattered over tends of thousands of square miles and some are so far from Nadi Airport that they put real meaning into the word 'remote'.
Amelia had paid big bucks to secure ten days of near-isolation at a remote luxury resort. She'd arrived late yesterday on a small seaplane, the only passenger, and only one of nine tourists in residence because it was near the tail of the Hurricane Season.
"You'll only get damn boringly balmy days here," Gus the veteran pilot told her. "The hurricanes were few this year and have gone. What we are in now is the 'buffer' or safety period to ensure we don't lose tourists to a late bloody rouge blow and we avoid the damaging publicity that scares the shit out of tourists who want everything safe and sanitized."
Amelia had laughed and appreciated the colorful character of the pilot. Although he spoke tough and thought nothing about injecting foul words into his conversation, she knew to accept it from him because he was an Australian national and everyone knows what dinkum Aussies are like.
The 33-year-old was a seasoned traveler but for the first time was traveling alone. Her usual traveling companion and husband Al, a disaster investigator, had been killed in a mine collapse along with his group inspecting the first fatal collapse. It had taken three weeks to recover Al's body and immediately after dealing with the legalities to initiate the winding up of his estate and selling the house, Amelia had boarded a flight for Fiji. She'd asked the travel agent for somewhere remote, and was satisfied this was almost as remote as it gets while still being on a recognized tourist track as she did like retaining some of the comforts of life.
At breakfast she sat alone, her back to the other tourists who straggled in. Looking through the dining room – a thatched roof on poles – on to lush vegetation with noisy colorful birds enjoying their paradise she knew she was almost there. Suddenly a giant was standing beside her – she'd heard the slap-slap of his sandals but thought it was a waitress bringing the coffee pot. From where she was sitting the guy looked seven feet tall and dressed in khaki straight out of eBay for safari-minded men. Huge white teeth flashed.
"Miss Kennedy?"
Missus actually but what did it matter? "Yes I am."
"You've asked for this?"
And there it was, that glorious brochure again. So simple, a suntanned model – she had to be a model with a body like that – asleep on a deckchair under an umbrella out from a pristine white sandy beach in six inches of incredibly blue seawater surrounding her deckchair making it her personal paradise.
The brochure had seduced Amelia the first time she saw it and now she was looking at it for perhaps the fiftieth time. "I am Thomas," said the man whose real name Amelia deduced she had little chance of pronouncing correctly. Thomas was a great name to handle. "Thirty minutes more or less outside the main entrance. I'll be there with your four-wheeler."
"You mean I drive the motorized thingy myself?"
The huge teeth gleamed at her again. "Yes, if you came for adventure. You look like such a woman, not like those fat loud-talkers from your country."
Oh thanks, Thomas, personal praise and a national insult in the same sentence. President Bush, what do I do? I'm not going to kick him; he probably weighs half a ton.
"You'll teach me how to drive the thing?"
"We call it ride, Miss Kennedy. Yes if you wish to know how to push the start button and turn the hand throttle and apply the hand brakes I will show you."
"You mean that's all?"
"Yes."
"That's my instruction over, thank you Thomas. I'll not keep you waiting."
Child's play thought Amelia, half an hour later as she rode the four-wheel all-terrain vehicle along a well marked almost flat track the quarter mile to Seerua Beach. There was even a locality map painted on top of the fuel tank. She increased her speed to 10 mph and felt she was flying although noting the indicator thingy went way beyond that speed as the red line marked at 25 mph, above which was no-go for the fat loud-talkers from her country, giggled Amelia, as well as the sleek sporty types like herself.
In the carry-box behind her were the chef's surprise – her food for the day at the beach plus an ice-box with juices, water and wine and a carry-bag with snorkeling equipment. All she had to provide was a towel, sunhat, sun cream, sunglasses, paperback and a dressing gown in case the weather turned.
Magic.
Thomas had advised no-one had booked to go to the beach that day so she had the half-mile of sandy bay to herself. She stopped in the parking bay – motorized vehicles were prohibited from going on to the beach and began lugging her gear and provisions the twenty meters to the rim of the palms where their shade stopped as an overhang above the sands.
Amelia's mouth jawed open wide. There is was EXACTLY like in the brochure – just the sole deckchair under the umbrella in one inch of water – well the tide was coming in, wasn't it? What beach has just six inches of water 24/7? Thomas had told her the incoming tide would reach her bottom – he meant ass – three hours after her arrival. Anywhere inside the reef was safe for swimming and snorkeling but he warned being alone she should not venture beyond the reef as there could be 'nasties'.
She'd asked Thomas to elaborate but he just grinned and said she was at the resort to relax so it was better she didn't know what he meant by 'nasties'. She'd agreed with that. Sharks were okay provided they kept their mouth shut but she was terrified by the thought of poisonous sea snakes and thingies with a fatal sting.
Amelia was in a white bikini, purchased because the girl in the brochure wore a white bikini and she thought the skin-tanning clinic had given her a great 'tropical island look'. She placed into a small bag to hang from her chair the suntan cream, paperback, bottle of water, glass and bottle of wine and walked down the sandy slope and sloshed out to her chair.
Amelia still thought it was amazing that the graphic designer working on the brochure had not exaggerated the photographic imagine he/she was working on. A couple of minutes later, sipping wine although it was only 9:15 and looking around her she realized why the imaged had not been doctored – the reality was so close to perfection that any manipulation would have made the scene appear unreal.
She sipped a Shug rouge de nois sparking pinot noir from California and sighed. This indeed was paradise. Only one thing missing – company, preferable male. Such is the concept of paradise she thought: even when it's attained you still want to tweak it a little.
The rising tide finally drove Amelia on to dry land; Thomas had said to leave the chair where it was as it was safely anchored. Amelia had lunch, read, dozed, read and dozed the afternoon away. Returning like a veteran – red-lining at 25 mph – she felt at peace with herself for the first time since learning of the tragedy. "I'm okay now Al – goodbye she said," the bike cutting through the breeze fluttering her long brunette hair behind her like the tail of a galloping horse.
She slowed at the 5 mph speed restriction wishing she could wrap the throttle and prove to Thomas she was a quiet adventuress. He rolled off a hammock at the vehicle and equipment depot and didn't bother asking if she'd had a great day – he just smiled at her grin that was a foot wide.
"Tomorrow?"
She nodded.
"There's no-one else booked for the beach tomorrow. You will be isolated again – sorry."
"I'll survive – you don't have arguments when you're alone."
He grinned and advised her to request perhaps a well oaked chardonnay tomorrow as a pack of tuna was coming in on the seaplane on the morning flight. It would be so fresh the fillets would still be flapping.
She grinned and slipped twenty bucks into his hand.
"There's no need, Miss Kennedy."
"I know, call me Amelia."
"Thank you. Amelia – nice name."
She smiled. It had taken years, but the name had grown on her after she'd left her teen years.
Amelia dressed for dinner, just a red sundress and matching mid-heel high fashion thong sandals with jeweled straps. Buried so remotely from the world, and being a resort, she'd decided to go without underwear to enjoy the feeling of being naughty.
